


Overtime

by rikkitikki



Category: Borderlands
Genre: Blood and Gore, Bloodplay, Bondage, Choking, Collars, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Overstimulation, Porn With Plot, Rimming, Sexual Slavery, Snuff, Stabbing, Stockholm Syndrome, Violent Sex, erotic stabbing??, kind of snuff, not a very good one but yeah, that tag sounds self-pitying but no it's all about the porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-23 14:10:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 38,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6118855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rikkitikki/pseuds/rikkitikki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of Hyperion knows there are only two ways to survive Handsome Jack's attention - you run like hell or you roll over, show a little belly, and hope he doesn't bite.</p>
<p>Or, in your case, attain fuckboy status.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In the beginning, he has no idea you exist. Which is a good thing. It's only by pure coincidence that you fuck it up.

You're a peon. A pencil pusher. In a company where spacing your workplace rival is not only accepted, but expected, it's good to be invisible. Being so low on the totem pole means you aren't saddled with a whole lot of work at once - there are hundreds of people just like you on Helios, toiling away in obscurity, and the work is evenly distributed. You have more free time than most. Although you don't want to be seen wandering too much, you and your friends move in packs to some of the station's sights when you're all free. The Hub of Heroism. The hall of giant frowning portraits, including that guy with the frowning cat. The weird waterfall things.

It's not mindblowingly great, but it's not bad either. It is what it is. It's your job.

On your latest tour, your group decides to swing by Giant Jack Statue #3 on your way back to the cafeteria. You're the one that stares up at it as you pass, taking in the cocked hip and heroic pose, so you're the one that sees the massive dick drawn on the inside of the statue's leg. Most people are smart enough not to fuck with Handsome Jack or his handsome property, which is pretty much everything, but there are exceptions. Like those knuckledraggers down in loading and docking.

"Are you _serious?_ " You rush forward, wetting your handkerchief - because of course you have one, this is Hyperion, why would you _not_ \- in the nearby water fixture, then climb up to scrub the graffiti off before anyone can see it.

"The hell are you doing, Foster?" One of your group. "We should get out of here before somebody thinks it was us."

"Come on, what do you think Handsome Jack's going to do when he sees someone doodled on his stupid statue? He's going to go _nuts._ Have people flayed. Alice accidentally wrote on a dry-erase board with a sharpie and they still can't find her head." You scrub furiously, your arm beginning to ache. It's coming off, just slowly. Funny how color absorbent gold seems to be. "Let's just get it cleaned up before anyone notices. Right?"

No answer. Your brow pinches, scrubbing off one of the gigantic doodle balls. "Guys? Did you hear--"

You turn to find your two friends stock still and terrified. Safra looks like she's going to have a heart attack. Miles might just throw up on his shoes. They've got an arm draped around them both, all nice and chummy, and if he notices their fear, he doesn't seem to care. He's too busy looking at you.

"Well hey-o, scouts." Jack gathers your friends up closer, glancing between them. "Watcha doin'?" He reels from one to the other, as if he expects an answer. "Huh? You like the statue? _I_ like the statue. Kinda hard not to like it when it's so damn good-looking, am I right? Personally I think they could've gone a little smoother on the nose, but you know - artists! It's a wonder someone hasn't gotten a bunch of them together and shot 'em already! Right?"

Neither of your friends are talking, and anyway, it's not their fault that _the_ Handsome Jack essentially has them hostage - it's yours. You clear your throat and turn to face him, inky handkerchief dangling at your side.

"Someone defaced the statue, sir. I, uh - I thought we should try to clean it."

"Yeah, puzzled that one out on my own. See, I know everything that goes down on this fine piece of orbital supermachinery - well, almost everything. Didn't have the cameras up on this one 'til yesterday. Been kinda upset about the whole _defacing my statue_ thing, honestly. I mean, who _does_ that?" A beat. How does he breathe, talking this much? "Not that I'm not flattered. Or saying it's inaccurate, if you know what I mean. Right? You know what I mean."

You're the only one that can manage quiet, harmless laughter. He cuts you off immediately.

"Shut up." You do. He goes on. "Been hangin' out here on and off for a couple days trying to see if they come back. Catch 'em in the act. Rip out their lungs. You know, usual Hyperion jackass protocol. Now that you cleaned the damn thing, that plan's pretty much shot."

"I"m sorry, sir."

"Sorry for what?"

You're going to die and take your friends down with you. Jack's hair trigger temper is legendary, even among the peons - stories abound about him cutting a guy's eyelids off because he thought he rolled them, or personally shoving someone into a vat of liquid nitrogen and smashing them into a million pieces. Your answer could be the difference between a quick death or a horrible, horrible life. You're going to have to gamble.

"I'm sorry for interrupting your investigation. I didn't know." You carefully step down off his statue, coming to stand in front of him. He's taller by a few inches - hopefully, he'll feel more comfortable if you're not standing over him. You offer your clean hand. "If there's anything I can do to make it right, sir, please let me know."

He considers you for a long moment. The man has reptilian eyes - they're beautiful, sure, bold and pretty like river rocks, but they're flat, calculating. Even when he smiles, he doesn't look like he wants to be your friend. He looks like he wants you to be his next meal.

"Aw, shucks. No harm, kiddo." He lets your friends go - pushes them out of the way, really, and takes your hand. "Hell, you've gone out of your way to do a service for the community! Can't hold that against you. Well, I _could,_ considering I pretty much own all of you, but I won't." A beat. "But I could."

"Of course, sir." He's got a strong shake. A little too strong, actually. "It's the least I could do, sir."

"Haven't seen you around. Where do you work, kid?"

"Shipping."

He pulls a face. "Wow. Crap work, huh? Sorry to hear it."

"It could be worse." You wait a moment, then look up through your lashes. "Could be in loading and docking."

"Atta boy. Keep looking up." He finally lets you go, hands in his pockets. You've still got your ruined handkerchief in hand. "Looks like that thing's pretty much done for. Here, take one of mine. I'll see you around, you crazy kids."

And then he's off on his way, no doubt planning to terrorize someone else. (What else does he _do_ all day? Does he even work?) Safra and Miles breath heavy, then stare at you and your new silk, monogrammed handkerchief. They look at you. You look at them.

"What the hell just happened?" you say.

\---

After that, you see him a lot more. It's only the occasional pass in the halls, maybe a nod of recognition during Hyperion's big company morale picnics (when he's not busy giving speeches or tallying up the unfortunate deaths, that is), but it's more often than before. Maybe you're only just now recognizing him in the crowd. Maybe he's always been there, throwing you glances.

Maybe. One evening, you walk into Shipping and start to doubt it. The first indicator that something is wrong is your boss standing in front of your office door - she looks drawn, nervous.

"Mrs. Halfield?" You step closer, hands folded behind your back. "Is something, uh - is something wrong?"

"You've been promoted," she says, but she doesn't seem happy for you. If anything, she's pitying you. "Management feels you are underutilized in your current position and suggested a new arrangement for you. You'll be moving to a new office - your things have already been transferred."

"How did management--" You stop when she starts shaking her head. "Ma'am?"

"Between us: don't ask questions. Don't do anything but your job. Keep your head down for a while." She throws a nervous glance around. "Sometimes being exceptional can be a bad thing, Mr. Foster."

With that warning in mind, you get back to work. Your new job isn't bad. Your office is nice - it's a corner office, complete with a little spaceview window. You're decently sure someone else was here just the other day, and you don't necessarily want to think about what might have happened to them - you focus on your job instead, which now involves the same kind of paperwork at a larger, slightly more important scale. You've moved from peon to flunkie, and you have absolutely no idea why.

Well, almost no idea. You walk in one morning to find a bottle of champagne and a letter on your desk.

CONGRATS, COOKIE. - H. JACK

"Cookie?" Pffft. You roll you eyes, balling up the letter and tossing it in your wastebasket, and pop the top off. "Yeah, sure. Thanks, Jack."

___

It might have ended at that, but you fuck up. You get his attention again.

Don't ask questions, you're told, and you don't. Don't do anything but your job, they say, and you don't. You keep your head down. You're the exact opposite of exceptional without being at risk of losing your job, and it seems to work for you. You don't get any more notes, champagne, anything - you were just a one-off interest. When the next official company event goes down, you're just another face in the crowd. Being so low on the food chain, you get to sit in the nosebleeds. Being in the nosebleeds, you actually get an elevated view of the entire conference room.

You see the guy. You see the gun. You see Jack get shot mid-sentence, crumpling to the ground, and you see the killer bolt off in the confusion.

You can't lie: you see the accolades written in the clouds. The man who caught Handsome Jack's killer. Star employee. Hyperion's greatest. Keep your head down, you know, but nobody else seems to be dashing after him - what if he gets away? What if the manhunt makes life harder for everyone else?

Fuck that. You're gonna be a hero, baby.

He takes a few potshots at you as you give chase, but misses - his piece is a revolver, too, so he has no time to reload while you're chasing him, and you close in. You tackle him on the platform to that stupid little train thing, slamming his hand against the platform until he drops the gun. Jakobs. Predictable. Time for your slick one-liner.

"Should've bought Hyperion, jackass!"

It's great. Everything is cool and awesome. You punch the guy and don't even notice you've broken your hand, too busy getting kicked and clawed and anything the guy can do to get you off. You catch him as he struggles to his feet - he's got his hands around your throat when you hear the train coming. You make a split second decision that you may or may not come to regret later and shove him onto the tracks.

When the blood sprays across the front of your immaculate Hyperion colors, you regret it. People catch up with you, crowding around to pick you up under the arms and bring you to your feet, to gawk at the reddish smear across the tracks. You stand up, shaky with nerves, and survey the scene. The blood. The gore. You're pretty sure you can taste some kind of organ-y fluid on your lips, like a deranged Pandoran smoothie.

You immediately faint.

___

The med stay isn't long - they wrap up your hand and send you back to work. Classic Hyperion. Nobody talks to you on the way for some reason, and you have to admit, you're a little disappointed. Where's the fanfare? The trophies? Hell, you'd take a pat on the back right about now. Nobody's talking about Jack either.

When you head into your office, you realize why.

"There he is! Been waiting for you all day, champ." Jack hops off your desk - you notice he's been sitting on your paperwork, crumpling the pages. "You're late."

"How are you alive?" you blurt out. He laughs at you, and you know it's _at_ you, not with you.

"Wow, you think I actually show up to those crappy little morale events? Here's a secret, cookie: I don't."

"Then how do I know I'm talking to the real Jack right now?"

You're shocked at your own gall, and apparently, so is Jack. He eyes you carefully as he steps in, putting him directly in front of you. The angle means you have to look up at him.

"Don't hurt your pretty little head thinking about it, pumpkin. Not why I'm here, anyway. Let's talk about _you._ " He reaches out to straighten your clothes. Could one of his body doubles pull off this total disregard for personal space, or is that just kind of a Jack thing? "Big hero, huh?"

"That's what they tell me."

"Sure they do. I mean, taking down Handsome Jack's killer? Wow. That's some real company pride, kid."

"I'm not going to lie," you begin, miraculously not flinching when he touches your breastpocket, "I thought there'd be a little more... I don't know, more accolades? A plaque. Something. I expected more attention."

"You've got my attention."

"That's not necessarily a good thing, sir," you reply, instantly regretting it. His grip on your shirt tightens. "N-not that I don't appreciate it. Not that I don't _want_ it. It's just - a lot to shoulder."

A beat. He smiles, but it isn't kind.

"I know, I know - hard to impress someone so goddamn impressive themselves. I know _exactly_ what you mean, cupcake." His ego soothed, he fixes your collar. You flinch. "This is going to come as, like, _totally_ surprising, but I wasn't always up here on the top. Had to start at the bottom, y'know? Little fish takin' bites out of all the bigger ones."

"Of course, sir."

"I see a lot of me in you, kid. Really do. Now, normally when that happens, I either kill the upstart or have 'em turned into a body double. And then possibly killed." His hand wraps around your throat, holding you firmly. Even if you could break free, your knees have gone to jello. "In fact, there's only two little things keeping me from chucking your ass out of the nearest airlock, kitten."

You don't speak, but he squeezes down. "What are they, sir?"

"One, you've got absolutely no motivation to move up. Haven't for years. Turned down all your promotions. See, you're just some nobody who doesn't give a shit - you're not a _threat._ " He cocks his head. "Not right now, anyway. Now, if that changes..."

"It won't." You don't dare grab his wrist, even when he digs his knuckle into the hollow of your throat. "It won't. It's just a job."

"See, kind of a logical fallacy type thing going on there - Hyperion isn't really just a _job,_ is it? You don't work it - you live it. I mean, jeez, show a little company pride. Stab a guy with a pen over the last donut! The world is your oyster."

"Please--"

Please let go. Please don't kill me. Please don't murder my entire family. You clench your eyes shut, the first tear loose on your cheek, and almost don't realize when he pulls you in and kisses you - still might not know if he hadn't slipped you tongue, your mouth slack and dumb against his. Your mind stutter-skips and focuses in on the stupid, small things; the incredible fine control he has over his lips, the way the mask is slightly cooler than skin, and his breath is really nice, is that spearmint?

You moan with terrible understanding. You're not entirely sure if he thinks you're into it or knows better, but he bites your lip anyway, licking at your teeth.

"Reason two?" Your back hits the wall. He laughs against your mouth, caging you in with his arms. "You're pretty."

"Please, sir--" You fit a hand between the two of you, palm open against his chest. He stops, and when you meet his eyes, they're cold. You shrink under his stare. "I just - I've never been with a man--"

"Great time to learn, huh?" In his own way, he's a little sweeter with you. Presses into your hand until he traps it between you, dips his head, and licks the tear from your cheek. "Couldn't ask for a better teacher, kitten. Hold onto me. Hands go - here, yeah."

Arms around his neck, hands wrapped around your thighs to hoist you up and fit your legs around his waist - even if you're not into it, at least he knows what he's doing. He's surprisingly strong, too, but you suppose it makes sense - all that strangling and murder has to be killer exercise. The thought isn't exactly sexy, and you close your eyes and freeze up on him, breath shuddering like you're on the verge of a full-blown panic attack.

"C'mon, kid, loosen up a little." Those tender kisses at your neck aren't going to be so tender in a minute, you can tell. "You're going friggin' arctic on me, here."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Don't _do_ it."

"Of course, sir." You're hesitant about kissing him, but he responds well, fitting your foreheads together. "I'm nervous. I don't want to - to disappoint you."

To get murdered. His eyes are cool, understanding in a completely unfriendly way.

"You don't worry about that, sweetheart. You just worry about keeping your legs nice and open for me, 'kay?" He rocks against you for emphasis. "I mean, just look at you - face like that? Ass like that? You were _made_ for this."

It's backhanded encouragement, but you'll take anything you can get right now. Stay warm, stay loose, stay open - it doesn't take long to figure out that he doesn't much mind if you're slack as long as you do what he tells you to, and so you do that, letting him do all the work. You learn that there's a rhythm to it, and once you pick it up, it gets easier to tilt your head and groan when you're supposed to. It isn't even entirely acting anymore, either. No matter what kind of monster is attached to that mouth, it still knows how to find that spot where your neck meets your shoulder and nip, earning a full body shiver.

"That's it. Don't fight it, baby." He grinds into you again, and this time, there's a twinge of pleasure that has you holding on tighter. "Hold on. Daddy's arms are getting tired."

_Daddy._ You bury your face in his neck and groan, and he laughs hotly as he wheels you around and drops you on your desk. Paperwork goes flying. Your pen cup tips over. You've barely got time to move your laptop to the chair before he's shrugged out of his ridiculous jacket thing and come back, demanding your attention all over again. Briefly, you have to wonder about his rumored girlfriend - if she even exists and isn't some sort of killbot, how would she feel about this?

You then realize that someone insane enough to date Handsome Jack probably doesn't quibble over the little things.

"Ah-ah. Pay attention." He digs his nails into your side and rakes down hard enough to leave red lines. Now that he has you looking, he takes you by the wrist and presses your hand against his crotch, letting you feel him through his pants. He seems... substantial. "See? Doing just fine, kitten. Just be good and do what I tell you to and you can't screw it up. It's foolproof, baby."

Foolproof. When he yanks your collar down and sinks his teeth into your shoulder, it's all according to plan - you just have to bite your fist to keep from screaming. (Is he _chewing?_ ) When he leaves a trail of purpling bites and suck-marks across your throat, fingers digging deep divots into your hips, it's fine. _Foolproof._ When he pushes you on your back and leans over you, wiping the tears away with the back of his fingers, it's okay.

"Shhh. Don't cry." He seems to think on it, settling a hand next to your head. "Or do, actually. It's kind of erotic."

It's not the sex. It's not about the way he looks, or the way you feel. It's the fact that Jack is a living nightmare and you're stuck underneath him, hoping he doesn't get bored and cut your sweetmeats out for fun. The man has burned down entire cities in fits of pique. He's the biggest psychopath in a weapons empire that breeds them, and you and your life mean absolutely nothing to him.

"Why are you--" You pause, composing yourself. "You're being - very kind, sir."

"Right?" He chuckles, leaning between your splayed legs. "You want to know why I haven't just cut a new hole yet?"

He's absurdly cruel. No one can be this psychotic and not hurt themselves in the process. He takes your moment of disarm to flip you over, dragging you down until you're bent over the side. The edge of the desk digs a hard red line into your stomach and batters your knees, and Jack isn't helping, shoving your shirt up around your neck to rake his nails down your back. You wince when the material of his shirt presses against the fresh marks, his chin on your shoulder.

"Because I plan on getting a _lo-o-o-t_ of mileage out of you, Foster. Now stick your ass out for daddy."

Well, that's that, isn't it? Mind-numbing fear washes out in favor of grim acceptance - you're not in any life-threatening danger right _now,_ but it's going to happen again. Maybe you'll die the next time, or the time after that. Maybe you'll be chained up somewhere dark, just waiting for him. There are a lot of maybes.

But in this moment, none of them matter. You bunch your shirt up around your face so he can't see you and do as you're told, up on your toes while he hikes your sensible slacks around your knees in one easy swipe. The air down here is always bordering on frigid because someone in this department won't leave the goddamn thermostat alone, so your shiver is half from the cold and half from the fact that he's feeling you out, dragging his hand up your thigh to the small of your back, testing out how it feels to grip you by your hips. You hear the tinkle of his belt and wonder if he's actually crazy enough to want to do this dry.

Luckily, no. Unluckily, he's got something else in mind entirely. At first, you don't recognize what's happening; you know that he's doing something to you, but whatever it is, nobody's done it to you before. He has to start sucking before you realize he's rimming you. It's not bad - it's actually getting better - but it isn't what you would have anticipated from Handsome Jack. It seems a little _giving_ for him. What does he get out of it?

When you bury your face in your arms and moan, pushing back for more, you realize that it's probably a power thing. It's not concern for you and what you get out of this, although he might have superficial reasons to want you to enjoy yourself - it's always, always about him.

Doesn't mean it's not good. Doesn't mean your pants don't catch awkwardly on your knees when you splay your legs for him, earning a slap on the ass and something he does with his tongue that makes you gasp for breath. You're hard to the point of aching by the time he pulls back, purposefully loud when he smacks his lips.

"Responsive! I like it. You know, it's such a _drag_ when you end up with a cold fish. Know what I mean?" He stands, doing something behind you. "Nahhh, you probably don't. Not to burst your bubble, kid, but you don't exactly look like you pull chicks. Maybe one here and there, but - well, y'know."

"I'm not a virgin," you start to say, and get as far as _I'm not a virgaaahshit_ when he hooks his fingers into you.

"You sure about that, pumpkin?" He's already pistoning his wrist. At least it's slick. "'Cos I'm getting a different vibe back here. Jeez, you don't even play with yourself? You're really lucky I got here first, kiddo. Somebody else might not be so _nice._ "

On that last word, he presses down and you lose your mind. Your voice cracks off the walls before you can help it, slamming both hands over your mouth while Jack laughs his ass off - it's _good,_ so good, makes your knees tremble and puts an arch in your spine. Is anybody else nearby working today? Did anyone hear?

"Sensitive? Oh, sweetheart." He does it again. You sob, another jolt of pleasure jarring you against your desk. "You just keep getting better and better."

"Please--" Another brush, this one lighter. It's enough to put another octave in your voice. "Jack - sir, just--"

"Just _what?_ Use your words."

"Just fuck me. _Please._ " It's what he wants to hear, you know it. He has to want to. He can't hold out on himself forever, not someone as selfish as him. "I need it, I need - _you,_ please, Jack, please."

If you weren't listening hard, you might not hear the sharp intake of breath and mild growl behind you. Two fingers goes to three, but he's not trying to torment you - this is all business, impatient and slightly painful, and you get the feeling he only does the bare minimum before turning to himself. He doesn't even take the time to draw things out and make you beg. You feel him line up, and then he's moving in one steady, merciless slap of his hips, laying against your back and pressing you down against the desk, his arms wrapped around your middle.

"That's a good boy." He kisses your temple in mock-kindness, rocking into you. It's not comfortable. He's not being gentle. "Now tell daddy you want him to fuck you stupid with his big fat cock."

You actually roll your eyes. It must be nice to make people say stupid shit for you.

"I want you to fuck me stupid with your big fat cock." A beat. "Daddy."

He doesn't slowly work his pace up, doesn't bother with _baby, is this alright, is this hurting you_ because he doesn't give a shit, or maybe because he knows the limits of a human body and knows you're nowhere near them. The first thrust rocks the desk an inch forward, so he has to change his angle and pin your shoulders down for the next. And the next. And the next.

It doesn't feel good. It doesn't hurt. It's just _uncomfortable,_ like your least favorite pair of socks, and between the desk biting into your stomach and Jack panting and clingy above you, you fold your arms under your head and wait for him to finish. When he belatedly remembers you exist, he reaches around to jerk you off and finds you flagging, disinterested. You push his wrist away and he goes back to your hip.

It takes forever for him to come, and when he does, he buries his groan in your shoulder and shudders hard against you, his hold on you entirely too tight. It takes him a few moments to wind down, panting against your nape, putting his head back together. You're sore by the time he stands, pulling out.

"Whew! Been a while." He's probably putting his clothes back into order. You wait until he pulls you to your feet, fixing your shirt while you hike up your slacks. "Good job, kiddo. Hey, I'll call you when I need you again, alright? Keep your schedule open."

"Of course, sir."

"Mmm--nah, that's not gonna work." He tips your chin up, making you look at him. "When we're in public, call me Jack. When we're in private..."

"Anything you want, daddy."

"Clever." He shakes you lightly by the jaw, a lot like someone might when they're purposefully irritating a dog. "Make me proud, you little scamp."

You watch him go. You watch through the open door as he struts off, purposefully tripping someone carrying a tray of coffee on the way. You watch him disappear.

Then you go back to work.


	2. Chapter 2

Your mother once told you that life isn't fair. She told you that a lot, actually - whenever you got the short end of the stick, whenever life screwed you, that's what you got. _Life isn't fair._

Jumping halfway out of your skin whenever someone opens your office door isn't fair. The dull ache when you walk isn't fair. The constant fear that Handsome Jack is going to pop out of the shadows like a goddamn jack-in-the-box isn't fair. None of it matters. You're expected to pick up where you left off, and you do. For the most part, nobody seems to notice that you're jumpier than usual.

Safra and Miles do, though. When they both sit at your table at lunch without warning, you can feel the intervention coming on.

"Foster, what's up with you?" Safra cocks her head. "And don't say _nothing,_ because that's bullshit. Something's wrong, isn't it?"

"Nothing I can't handle myself," you lie, dumping the rest of your sandwich in the trash. The tuna salad here is terrible. "It's just--"

"Just?"

"It's Handsome Jack." Both their eyes widen. You lean in, lowering your voice. "Ever since that stupid assassin thing, he's been paying attention to me. Wants to talk to me all the time. It's _insane._ "

"So, wait, wait." Miles waves his hands. "You're telling us that _Handsome Jack_ is stalking you?"

It's a little more fitting than either of them realize. You laugh joylessly, hands in your face.

"Look, Foster, it's _fine._ It's fine! Really." Safra gives you a light shove. "What's Jack's attention span anyway, like two point five seconds? Pretty soon he'll be too busy driving his turboyacht around to even remember you exist. All you have to do is... y'know. Don't piss him off."

"Yeah, just kiss his ass a little. _Ooh, Mr. Jack, is that a new haircut?_ " Miles raises into falsetto, batting his eyes. "Oh, Mr. Jack, you have such excellent taste in fashion! Tell this humble prole your secrets!"

You can't help snickering, loosening up for the first time in days. You know you look like crap. You know that they deserve to know why. "It's not just that," you tell them, leaning in closer, "it's that he--"

They stop. You stop. You don't have to look back to know who struts up and sets their hands on your shoulders, gripping tight.

"Sorry, kids. Gonna have to borrow your boy here." He taps you on the back of the head, already turning. "Come on, Foster."

"I'll talk to you guys later," you tell them, dutifully following Jack out of the cafeteria and down the hall. People pass by - people look at you, look at who you're with. They envy you, fear you. Is this what it feels like to be Jack? Everyone within a square mile being nervous just because you exist?

There's a nice dark corner half-hidden behind this giant plaque dedicated to all the people who died of brain worms years back (it literally reads "all the people who died of brain worms"). He gets behind you and shoves you into it, trapping you face first against the wall.

"You sly little _shit._ " Far from angry, he sounds amused. "You were about to tell them our secret, weren't you?"

"I didn't know it was supposed to be a secret." Wrong move. He slams an open palm against the wall just right of your head, making you jump. "I just--"

"Think about it, baby. Word gets out that you're my cooze on the side, people are going to get jealous. I got guys who'd chop off their fun parts just to have this kind of opportunity." You have to flatten yourself against the wall not to touch him. "I mean, wanting to blow _your_ brains out aside, it might get a little dicey for your friends, right? Hostage situations, torture... y'know. All that bad stuff. Believe me, kitten - I'm looking out for you here."

Maybe it's the fact that he's not bearing down on you. Maybe it's the change of scenery. Hell, maybe it's the four cups of coffee you had right before this. Something makes you bold enough to duck out from under his arm, backing into the opposite corner. He doesn't seem bothered, laughing at you.

"It's not funny. You--" Your mouth is dry. "Why _me?_ There are better looking people here."

"It's not your looks." He thinks on it, taking a step forward. "Well, it kind of is, yeah, but not entirely. I mean, if you looked like _me,_ I probably couldn't keep my goddamn hands off you, buuut you don't. Scratch that off. Wanna try again?"

"There are - tons of people who'd follow orders."

"I mean, that's just a gimme. I run the place. Hell, I own you people."

Another step. You're running out of space.

"There are people here who love you. Who'd do anything for you."

"You have no idea how boring that is. I mean, at first it's like, 'woo, sycophants, do a human triangle for me,' but then it just gets kind of dull."

He stops in front of you. Your eyes feel wide, your body drawn back against the wall, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. He's there, he's _right there_ and every second you spend near him is practically cheating death, and he knows that, he knows you know that. He tips your chin up, dips down to ghost his lips over yours.

"It's because you look so goddamn good when you're afraid. That look in your eye is just... _wow._ Love it."

" _Everyone_ is terrified of you," you point out, willing yourself to melt into the wall.

"Yeah, but you? I want to fuck it _out_ of you, babe."

Oh god, you have no idea what that means. He straightens, giving you one last mean flick on the ear. "But don't hurt yourself thinking about it. All you need to do is bend over for me, 'kay?"

"'kay."

"Ah-ah." He waves a finger in your face. "What do we say?"

"'kay, Jack." A beat. He's still waiting. "...Daddy."

"Good boy." He ruffles your hair on the way out, ruining an hour of careful preening. "Lunch break's over. Get back to work."

That much you can do.

___

He gives you days. Weeks. A month goes by with no contact from Jack, then two - there's some huge conflict over an eridium mine full of monsters that seems to eat up everyone's time, including yours. The marks fade. The bruises turn blue, then green, then yellow. You allow yourself to hope that he's forgotten about you. Maybe he's fucking his intern now. Someone closer to his office, probably. He might not want to make the trek halfway across Helios to get to you.

One day, Halfield stops you again. You've learned to dread her.

"You've been requested for a department transfer." She's not pitying anymore. If anything, she seems a little resentful of you. "To the tower."

"The - the _tower?_ Oh, no." You wave your hands, head shaking. "No, no, no. I like it _here._ It's quiet and cold and everybody leaves me alone."

"You're telling me you're going to turn down an offer to work in one of the highest-paid positions on Helios?"

"Yes! That is exactly what I'm telling you." Your laugh sounds canned, nervous. The tower, the mangy bastard. "I mean, wow, that's great that they'd pick me and all, but I'm not really _tower_ material, you know? I like my office. My stupid desk gnomes. The lack of Handsome Jacks." She's taken aback that you'd say it out loud, but you do, rambling on. "I'm fine here, thanks. You can tell them thank you, but no. Thanks."

She boggles at you as you strut back to your office, shut the door, and lock it for good measure.

It's another week before Jack fires back. You find a cute little wine basket on your desk in the morning, but the thing is, the label on it looks pretty worn - you realize he's sent you a bottle of something well over a century old. (It's dry, hot, and terrible. You cork it after a few sips.) There's a tray of very nice chocolate truffles and a note at the bottom.

TAKE THE JOB.

You wrap up the terrible wine, a much less expensive box of candy, and send the basket directly to him with an answer written on the back of his note: NO THANK YOU.

You're much braver when he's two hours on foot away. He'll give up eventually and find easier prey, you're sure, and anyway, he took this long getting back to you - it'll be days before he even gets the basket, and months before he works back around to sending another slightly threatening note. You breathe easier, sleep well.

When you walk into your office and find Jack in your chair, eating the rest of your truffles, your heart plummets.

"Hey, kitten."

He pulls his feet off the desk, but that's all you see. You slam the door and immediately start walking in the opposite direction, mind completely unwilling to accept what's happening to you. This isn't about your job anymore. It's not about promotions, or even just staying afloat. You hear him call at your back and break into a run, bolting down the busy hallways and taking as many wild turns as you can - sure, you'll have to come out to eat eventually, but the animal panic in your hindbrain isn't letting you think about that. All you're thinking about is the terrible things Jack's going to do if he catches you.

When you stop for a drink and a rest in one of the break rooms, you get a call over the ECHOnet. Thank god there's no one else in here to hear it.

"Now c'mon, that's not _nice._ I just wanna talk." He breaks into obnoxious laughter, snorting into the speaker. "Nah, I'm screwin' with you, I'm totally going to kick your ass. Now, you can make this easy on yourself and go up to my office, _or_ \- and this is great, listen to this - I'm going to hunt you down and fuck you 'til you cry. Wherever I find you. And I will." Another bolt of laughter. "Better pick somewhere private, snookums. Wouldn't want your dopey pals to see you get railed in a hallway, huh? God, it'd totally end up on ECHOtube. Kiss kiss. See you soon."

You start running again.


	3. Chapter 3

He tracks you down. Moment by moment, hour by hour, he follows you, and you have no idea _how._ No matter where you go or how unpopulated the area is, no matter how _remote_ it might be, he always comes your way. Always. He has to be tracking you somehow, but he didn't have time to bug your clothes and you have no implants to track, so you can't fathom _how._

But the chase has to come to an end sooner or later, and you'd like it to be on your terms. Exhausted, hungry, and abjectly terrified, you find a nice spacey room full of pipes and hide behind a few, trying to keep your ragged breathing down. He's coming, you can hear him - you can always hear him coming, taunting the empty air, wearing you down with playful, terrifying threats.

_Just come out already. It's over, kid. I mean, hey, you tried! Gold star for effort._

_Let's goooo. Got things to do. People to launch into space. Keep me waiting and this could possibly involve you._

_I'll be easy - I mean, you're not gonna **die** or anything! Now, I'm not making any promises for maiming, but yannow. Accidents happen._

He's insane. He's absolutely insane and he's turned that insanity on you, and when you're around him your chances of survival change by the minute, if not by the _second._ You're tired. You lost your nice Hyperion jacket somewhere back there because it snagged and he started to round a corner on you. You missed your favorite telenova. Life isn't being very fair to you right now.

When you pull your handkerchief and mop your brow, understanding comes in a sudden flash. You look down at the yellow silk, the HJ monogrammed in the corner, and realize that you're an idiot. No, really, you are. Back when he gave this to you and the world was still a kind place, you hadn't given it a second thought. Hadn't thought about it when it was in your pocket when Jack interrupted your conversation with your friends. Didn't really think on it when he somehow always knew how to find you where you were most off-guard.

 _Life is unfair._ Fuck. You hurl it across the room in a fit of pique, crouching back down behind your pipes to wait for him.

You aren't waiting long. Soon enough the door swings open and you hear him whistling, kicking the door shut behind him. He travels over to the handkerchief first - if you flatten yourself against the floor, you can see when he bends down to pick it up. It's a good position to be in while he pokes around the room, kicking a few empty boxes over, peering around some massive valve at the far end of the room. He pretends he knows what he's looking at. Gradually, you push to your feet, readying yourself.

There's no real plan here. There's no carefully thought out scheme, or some clever way you're going to trick Handsome Jack into leaving you alone. All you have is desperation and the hope that if you fight him hard enough, he'll be impressed and leave you alone. Or you die. You're probably going to die no matter what. But an airlock? That's now how you're going to die.

When you lunge, you catch him somewhat off-guard. He barely has time to back up a step before you catch him by the arm, but he manages to stay on his feet - was expecting you, on some level, and knows to keep up the momentum and stop yours by jamming a knee in your stomach, tearing the breath out of you. You stay clinging, though, and try to focus on bringing him to the ground in what has to be the absolute most pathetic attempt at a fight that has ever happened, ever. You pull at his foot, and when he grabs for the valve for support, it's too slick to grip; you both go down. He growls at you like some kind of animal, eyes wild, hitting you with everything he can manage; you're hanging on no matter how much pain he puts you through, keeping him down, tangling your legs with his and biting down on his shoulder when he tries to pry you back by your hair. There's blood in your mouth when you pull back, which is absolutely disgusting and probably full of the worst cocktail of drugs and venereal disease you can even imagine, but there you go.

In the end, you both have the same idea. You get your hands around his throat before he gets his on yours, giving you a good few seconds of air on him, and squeeze as hard as possible. The funny thing is, you can't hear - can't hear the pipes working around you anymore, can't hear any noises Jack manages, can't hear anything but the pounding of your heart in your ears and a wet squelch you realize is the sound of your teeth grinding. His eyes are wide and wet and wild, pupils gone to pinpricks, teeth bared in what might be a grin - you can feel your pulse in your lips, snarling, your fingernails cutting into his skin.

It's a perfect, strangely intimate moment. He spreads his legs and pushes his hips against yours, and the feeling of him dragging against the inside of your leg, almost hard, is just distracting enough. Your grip loosens and he sucks a quick breath in before you can strangle it, and you're done, you're finished - the more you keep squeezing, the worse off you are, until you roll onto your side and make one last desperate push.

When he rolls on top, you lose your grip and claw helplessly at his hands and arms. He heaves his breaths, barely managing laughter.

" _Wow,_ do you - do you ever have trouble fitting those balls inside your crummy little office? Wow!" Tighter. He's better at this than you are. His thumb digs into the hollow of your throat, so you're not only suffocating, you can actually _feel_ your windpipe threatening to collapse. "I mean, _seriously_ \- wow. You know, that's the closest anybody's ever come to killing me in like... forever? Those low level jackasses keep sending assassin after assassin, and it's - I mean, it gets dull. Boom. Kill 'em. Chop their hands off. Call it a day."

You must be blue by now, your nails digging little gashes across his neck where you paw at him. For a reason you absolutely can't fathom, he leans down and _licks your eye._ Your eye. Was that really necessary?

"You weren't actually _close,_ but hey! Made my evening more interesting. Isn't that what really matters?"

You're dying. Just slowly suffocating while he gets his sick kicks watching. Once the strength leaves your hands, your vision starts to fail - blots out black at the edges and works its way in until you can hardly see his face. Hovering on the razor edge of unconsciousness, you find yourself actually sort of at a strange peace with this. You got _Handsome Jack_ to personally strangle you, and hell, he's practically famous for that. You don't have to put up with his tormenting anymore. It's okay. You're okay.

He lets go. You suck in a breath hard enough to arch off the ground, hacking and choking, and panic blindly when he catches your wrists and pins them on either side of your head.

"Easy, easy! You're fine, babe. You're cool. Hey." He leans low. You can't see him through the watering of your eyes. " _Hey._ You're cool. Talk to me."

"Why didn't you--" You choke, turning your head away. It takes a few tries to get the words out. "Are you going to kill me?"

"Well, maybe! Who knows these days, am I right? But you're not gonna die for _this particular thing,_ no." He leans even lower, close enough that you can feel the breeze off his words. His lips brush your jugular. You squirm in his grip, expecting at any moment that he might tear your throat out with his teeth. "Gotta say, kitten, I'm surprised. You drew first blood. Didn't expect that outta you."

"Is that good?"

"Yeah. Well, nah, probably not." He sits up, peeling his stupid sweater over his head and tossing it aside. "Yeah for _me,_ probably not for _you._ You're a skittish little shit. Hey - checking out my abs, right? Go on. Touch 'em."

You weren't, but they're nice abs. He grabs one of your hands and makes you touch them.

"Great, right?"

"Awes--" Hack. "Awesome."

"I totally know. God, I'm so good-looking."

He's not bad-looking without his shirt on. Maybe you expected him to be a little thinner, since it's been years since he fought the giant Pandoran space squid or whatever, but he's not - you get both hands on him, feeling him out, touching everywhere you can reach, and he goddamn well _preens_ at the attention. You're doing something right, at least. You sit up and lick a stripe up his chest, pushing your advantage, and bite him again just below his collarbone, and he - he just makes this _sound,_ quiet and low in his throat, that twists you all up inside. When he rocks down into your lap, it gets worse. You drag red lines down his back in retaliation, ruining a decently expensive manicure, and he arches slightly, hissing out a low _ah._

He's into this. You could get into this. Not only is this kind of sick, it's also bound to go horribly, horribly wrong.

"Easy, babe," he says again, low and smooth and right in your ear, and he's rubbing your arm, cradling the side of your head, and it just feels - safe. For that moment, you feel safe. You close your eyes. You let him brush his lips down under your ear, skimming your neck. "Easy."

Realization comes too late. He bites down on the right side, and it has to be just as hard as he possibly can - it's like being stung like a wasp, because he hits multiple times, shifting consistently to thin-skinned, sensitive areas. Luckily, you're far enough away from the more populated areas of Helios that nobody hears your screaming, or sees you pull at his hair or shove at his chest, or hears you whimper when he licks over the wounds. There's no telling how many of them there are. It's more than three.

He laughs, laughs.

"Come on, kid - I thought you were a biter! Don't tell me you're pussin' out now. Aw--" He cups the back of your head and lays it against his shoulder, stroking your back in a way that feels sickeningly paternal. God, it hurts. Your eyes are watering. "I didn't even _chew._ Now, Nisha - nah, nevermind. Stop crying."

When he pulls back, he's a fucking nightmare. He's got you blood on his lips, his teeth pink, tongue too red. He tips your chin, forcing you to meet his eye. Beautiful, beautiful eyes, but when he stares you down, it feels like being looked over by a particularly handsome spider.

"Don't worry, kitten. Last time I was in a hurry, I know." He dips in, setting your foreheads together. You have to close your eyes. "This time, daddy's gonna take real good care of you."

It sounds more like a threat than a promise. What follows is a kiss that turns your stomach. You've got his blood on your lips, and he yours - kissing him reminds you of horror movies and raw steak and dog attacks, and while you're not speaking for him, you find none of those things particularly sexy. He likes to hold you around the throat when he kisses. Considering Jack's very special relationship with strangling, you find this mildly disturbing. You have difficulty breaking it off.

"Is it always - sex or murder with you?" You grit it out against his cheek, nails raking at his arms. "Fucking or killing?"

" _Or?_ " 

You're in bed with a monster. His laugh is playful, but he's not playing - he tears your shirt open and pulls it off of you, pulls you up, and pushes you by the back of the neck until you're where he wants you. It's like being a show dog. Hands and knees, and he keeps your head down.

"Don't move." When you hear his belt, you turn to look. He grabs you by the hair and guides your head back with a snarl. "Don't _move._ Look, kid, if you want to die, just say so."

"No, Jack."

"Who's the boss, kitten?"

"You are." You hang your head, hands curling into loose fists. "You're the boss."

"And what does the boss do?"

"Makes the decisions."

"Good answer! That's right." You cringe when he loops something around your neck, fastening it snugly. "They make the decisions. You know why? So people like you don't _have_ to. Wouldn't want y'all to hurt yourselves, now."

Without warning, he hauls you onto your knees by your throat - the belt is very fine leather, strong as hell, and no amount of yanking seems to loosen it. He gives it another snap, pulling until your back flattens against his chest.

"Ah- _ah._ Daddy's belt stays on until you show me you can be trusted." He loosens up enough for you to breathe comfortably, his arm settling around your middle. "Understand?"

"Please don't do this. Can't we just fuck?" The belt might as well be a viper, and a mind like Handsome Jack's can find many terrible, terrible ways to put it to use. You don't want to give him the opportunity. "Let's just take it slow."

"Nah, you'll be fine. Have a little faith in yourself, sheesh." He shoves you back to hands and knees without warning, wrapping the belt around his wrist while he grinds up against you. He's hard-ish. Something about the belt is a little more thrilling than it should rightfully be, even through the fear - maybe it's the feeling of having something around your throat, since that seems to keep happening lately.

"Hey, you think anybody would notice if we cut a hole back here?" He grabs a handful of ass, his squeezing just this side of painful. There's a grin in his voice. "Like an easy access route? You could stop wearing underwear. Bend over for me where and whenever I wanted you to. I mean, you'd have to make sure you keep it all in, but you could handle that, right kitten? You could be the official Hyperion _cum dump._ "

God, that _mouth._ Don't let him see the heat in your face. He leans over you, fitting every inch of himself across your back, and puts his mouth at your ear. You're not going to ignore him.

"Or! Or. Could always get the nerds involved. I hear R&D's working in other functions to the control collars. Man, what do you think it'd be like to come from the sound of my voice? Y'know, besides making announcements _really_ interesting."

Your pants and underwear go down to your knees in one fluid motion. He's running a hand down your bare side, skin-to-skin when he rocks up against you.

"And if you're _really_ good, maybe I'll just take you home." It's an insidious purr, low and rumbling and sweet. He runs his hand along your spine, fingernails skimming. "You like that idea, sweetheart? All that stress, all those hard decisions - you could just give it all up. To me."

You've since buried your face in your arms, which he's seemed to be fine with, but now he sighs and shifts and drags you back up onto your hands. You hear him fumbling, feel the belt jerk a little while he tries - and apparently fails, if the swearing is anything to go by - to use his hands for something. When you feel something cold drip down onto you, you hurriedly grab your discarded shirt and stuff it under your knees.

"Smart move, sugar." You twinge when he hooks two fingers in, brutishly adding a third. "You're gonna need it. Been a while for you, huh? For some reason, I don't think you got anybody else to grease your gears. Or was it slow lovemaking?"

He twists his wrist. You jerk in place, pleasure stabbing through you.

"Rose petals? Bubble bath? Did you look into each other's eyes and all that soulful crap? Pffft." Another roll of his fingers. You whimper. "You think you want that, but seriously - you don't want that."

He's rubbing steadily now, the other hand jerking you off, and it's so good, it's _so_ good - when you try to bite into your wrist and smother the moans, he takes a break to yank your hand behind your back and pin it, slowing things down.

"You don't want it. You want this." He gives you a solid slap on the ass. "Don't muffle it."

You use your arms to hide your face instead, and he gets back to work.

"You want _this,_ babe. They can't fuck you like I can. Can't make you cry and scream like I can." You blindly grip his arm, white-knuckled. "Can't make you do _this._ " The next few strokes of his fingers are punishingly hard. You come with a stutter, a little wail - you end up hauled up against him, an arm around your middle, the other stroking you through it. When it starts to be too much, you let out a little whine. You're actually surprised when he stops - he laughs in your ear, showing you the mess on his hand.

"See that, kitten? That's pure skill. Not to _brag_ or anything, but I basically rock at sex stuff." He brings his hand up. "Clean it."

You do. When you're done, he shrugs and wipes his hand off on your shirt, dumping you back on hands and knees. You try to sit up, but he gives the belt a warning yank and pushes you down again.

"Wait, I can't. Just wait a few minutes and--"

"Yeah, no. You'll be fine." He lines up. "Just bite something. A couple minutes in you'll start to like it again."

You don't get more time to argue. Even the push in is painful, too sensitive to feel good, and you immediately rock away from it. He groans, irritated, and drags you back. Gives the belt a sharp tug, then another.

"Hey - _hey._ " Like he's chiding a small dog. Like you're not biting into his sweater. "You got yours, and you'll get it again here in like ten minutes. Calm down and think about something else. Like money. Or lunch. Or your awesome new job. Or my awesome, awesome abs."

Right. New job. You groan and close your eyes, focusing on how unenthused you are about it. Maybe they'll let you pick your chair. Maybe you'll just stay _so_ busy that Jack can't justify dragging you off from it.

Maybe you can arrange a ride out of here. Atlas, maybe, even if it apparently has some kind of ninja women problem. Jakobs? Some kind of zombie outbreak, but that's more or less been handled. (Sort of.) Pandora, if you're really, really desperate. Anywhere that gets you far away from Handsome Jack before he can stub his toe or get a papercut and melon ball your eyes out in his rage.

That's it. That's what you can focus on. Soon enough, like he said, it gets better - the edge wears off and you spit out his sweater, making a tactical move.

" _Jack,_ oh god, Jack," you moan, bolstered by how his hips briefly judder. "Please--"

"Yeah? That good?" Christ, he thinks he's some kind of sex god. You can hear it in his voice. "Tell daddy you like it."

"I _love_ it, daddy." Again, his pace stutters - he lets out a groan he probably thinks you can't hear, leaning down over you, and you take the opportunity to reach back and hold him by his hair. "Go harder."

"Think you can handle it?"

"Go for it," you say, not expecting the way he shoves your head to the ground and pins you at an angle, going much, _much_ harder. It takes you less time to adjust, and he gets tired anyway, taking a moment to catch his breath with his arm wrapped around you.

"Still hangin' in there, kiddo?"

"If this is how you _take care_ of people, I'm never getting sick around you."

 _The_ Handsome Jack laughs at your joke. It's actually more of a dry chuckle, but hey! _He laughed._ And you're alive. You are incredible.

"You sure?" You don't expect him to pull out, to spread your shirt a little further on the concrete, or to instruct you to lay down, but he does. The new position lets you get off your knees, but it's... well, it's missionary, so you kind of have to look at him. "You sure you don't want Doctor Dick on the case?"

The press in is at a new, strange angle. After a few test thrusts, he figures out how your hips need to be to get you clinging to him, gasping. Now you can see him lick his teeth before he sets the pace again, solid and steady.

"I can go without the injecti--" You cut yourself off with a moan that surprises you both, throwing an arm over your eyes. Jack's deliberate in the way he pins them both to either side, looking at you with those eyes - when he holds one of your hands, squeezing reassuringly, you almost lose it and start laughing. Does he think he's being clever? How much of a slack-jawed idiot does he think you are? Handsome Jack shot a baby once. He interrupted a family's dinner, then murdered them with their dinner implements. You heard that one time, he strangled a guy so hard his eyeball popped out. _He shot a baby._

As great as you are, your asshole isn't going to fix any of that. He's playing the long con with you. You ran from him, ambushed him, sort of nearly (not really) killed him with his own favorite method, and you've committed the deadly sin of telling him _no_ \- why he feels like doing this rather than just stabbing you with a pen is beyond you. Maybe he's bored. He's been up here a while. Maybe he misses his girlfriend.

You get a look at his eyes. They're flat.

He makes you come first, wailing, arms tamped around his neck, but he's not long after. He's a bigger guy, so he practically crushes you with his weight before he has the wherewithal to sit up.

"This never happened." He yanks his sweater out from under your head, pulling it on. Maybe he won't notice the drool spot. "Found your crappy jacket in the hallway. Wear it out. Get changed, then come up to your new workspace and get to work." He snaps at you. "Pronto, pronto. If you drag ass, I'll know."

He sneers before he leaves. Once he's gone - really gone, ten minutes away kind of gone - you pull on your clothes and try to get yourself presentable. (The jacket is unsalvageable. Your hair is nightmarish, but you can pass it off as some slick new style.) You stretch, pace, get yourself back into the Hyperion douchebag mindset. You lick your thumb and smooth down your eyebrows.

He's playing you. He has to be. If he wants a war, you'll give him a goddamn war.

But politely.


	4. Chapter 4

Naturally, he stays away from you. But he's watching.

Your new job is alright. It's the same thing, but different. Different, more important information to move. You don't have your own office anymore. The people you work with are a different breed of Hyperion than you - they're the movers and shakers that have spent years, sometimes _decades_ clawing their way up the corporate ladder, and you're the peon who earned your job on your back. They all think that. You think it's hysterical in a really unfunny, existentially painful kind of way.

You miss your friends. You miss your crummy little office. You miss being nobody. You _really_ miss the cookies Anderson would bring in sometimes.

But there's this guy. He comes up the big ass elevator to empty wastebaskets and vacuum sometimes. He's a janitor. He's nobody. But there's this _guy,_ and he's smart and funny and shoots the shit with you when you both have the time. His name is Diego. He's beautiful.

He's also totally unaware of the danger he's in, the poor bastard.

The first big scare comes when you're chatting with him at your desk one day, telling the most offensive, disgusting jokes you've ever heard. It's hard to keep your voice down when you're laughing so hard, so you miss the sound of Jack's office door opening. It isn't until you hear his footsteps that you snap back to your computer, furiously typing gibberish. Jack passes without slowing, although you _think_ he looks your way. It isn't until he's gone that you relax. You turn back, but Diego is long gone. Your wastebasket is empty, at least.

The second near miss is at a big conference in the Hub of Heroism. Apparently the high-level people have their own shitty morale events to attend, although this one has significantly nicer food. You're by the snack table when he comes up to you, appearing out of the crowd.

"Foster! You like playing with the big boys yet?"

"Airlock me." You pull a face. "They want to talk about, I don't know, their cars or something. I don't even _own_ a car."

"Not _yet._ " Finger guns. He would fit in so well up here. "Come on, loosen up. All you have to do is smile and try not to look constipated. _I_ have to work."

"Well! Get to it, prole." You stick your nose in the air. "Filthy working class."

It takes him a second where you think he's going to be offended, but he starts laughing hard. Hard enough to draw attention, actually. You're patting him on the arm and laughing with him when the crowd quiets, and you know you have about 0.5 seconds before Jack shows. You shove Diego abruptly, sending him skittering out of the crowd.

"Seriously, get out. You don't belong here." It hurts to say, but it's in everyone's best interest. He seems wounded. "Don't you have a trashcan to play in?"

People around you laugh, and you turn your back on him before you can give him some miserable hang-dog look. Jack heads straight for the food, eating like _ten_ of those little hamburger things before wandering off. The look is absolutely flawless, but Jack wouldn't have neatly thrown the toothpicks in the trashcan like that. It's not him.

But he's watching.

Finally, the confrontation comes. Diego corners you in one of the break rooms, locking the door behind him.

"Alright, alright - what the hell is _wrong_ with you? One minute, you like me; next minute, you won't even look at me. Here, you're funny; there, you're hiding."

"Nothing is _wrong,_ " you lie, but you shrink under his stare. "I mean - it's complicated."

"I can keep up."

"And dangerous."

"Sounds exciting."

"And you may literally die. I'm not even joking. You might die."

This time, he pauses. Thinks over it. If you had a spine, you'd tell him to piss off and never come back, but you like him. You've daydreamed about running away together one day. It's pathetic, but it gets you from day to day.

"Alright," he finally says, arms crossed. "Tell me."

The story spills out of you before you know it, and you never realized how you've been aching to tell it. Throughout, Diego's eyebrows move frequently - they go up, like he doesn't believe you, then they go down low in a sympathetic look. They flatten. They arch. He has such nice eyebrows.

"So, recap: you accidentally impressed Handsome Jack, and now he's using you as a sex slave because he hates you. Kind of. But he's also being kind of nice because he hates you. You're terrified and have no idea what to do about this."

"That's basically it." You've moved closer to him bit by bit, and now you take his arm, painfully earnest. "I know, it's bizarre for him. I should be dead right now. It's like someone twisted reality just to make horrible things happen to me."

Diego shrugs. You move on.

"You can't tell anyone. You can't act like you know. I just want to let you know that I don't - hate you. I don't look down on you. In fact, I really... like you." You feel twelve and hitting on the prettiest girl at school again. He seems mildly taken aback. "But you can't act like you know. If he knows I told someone, he'll kill you. He'll make me wish I were dead. You can _not_ let him know that you know."

"Right, I got it. When do I ever run into Handsome Jack, anyway?" He gives you a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Look, you'll get through this. If there's ever any way I can help, let me know, alright?"

You nod, watching him. You both go for the hug at the same time, and it's - wonderful to be hugged by someone who isn't likely to gore you with whatever's on his desk at the time, it's so wonderful. It's _safe._ You pull back quickly, but you feel better as he leaves, running your hand through your hair. It's fine. Things are going to be... well, they won't be fine at all, actually, but they'll be survivable. Things are going to be survivable.

You'll _survive,_ but you won't be happy about it.

\---

He corners you in a quarantined room - something about formaldehyde in the carpets, whatever - and doesn't waste time pushing you onto your knees and caging you against the wall, giving you just enough room to bob you head. He has somewhere to be, you think, because he's not talking as much as he usually does. The idea that he's putting something important off just to get another turn at you is satisfying, in an extremely unhealthy kind of way.

"Alright, kid. Real easy here. Mouth open, teeth covered." He slaps your cheek with his dick, nearly hitting you in the eye. Then he does it again, actually hitting you in the eye. "Ya got that, right? I'm not expecting a friggin' porn star performance here, but don't bite me. You bite me and I'm knocking all your teeth out so you can try again."

You open your mouth. It's enough answer for him, leaning one arm against the wall and knotting the other in your hair, guiding you steadily down onto him. He's not _huge,_ which surprises you, just on the thick side - no wacky color-changing effects, no little gun that shoots out a BANG! flag, no cyber-enhancements, nothing. For once in his miserable life, Handsome Jack goes for the understated. You think so until you go down on one progressively deeper bob, where you notice that his dick doesn't quite match the rest of his skin. He didn't, right?

"Did you steal somebody's _cock?_ " you bark, rocking back. It snaps him out of whatever train of thought he was on, watching as you lean back. "Is that even a _thing?_ Oh my god--"

You're not expecting the backhand, although you probably should be. Your first instinct is to play dead, so while you tumble to the floor, he leans in next to you.

"Is that _really_ any of your business, pumpkin? Huh?" A handful of your hair. He drags you up by it until he can meet you eye to eye, and there's nothing friendly or funny about him now. It may be the closest you've ever gotten to a rage-based death. "Lemme ask you a question, alright? You listening? Question: what are you here for?"

"Here as in Helios, or here as in something else?"

"Here as in right here, right now."

"I'm here to do whatever you tell me."

He scoffs. You push up onto your knees, trying to ease the strain on your head. "No, no. Nice answer, but no. I mean what are you _doing_ here? What are you right there, right now to do? Huh?"

"To suck your dick."

He tosses you back against the wall, straightening up. You get a slow clap.

"That's right! To suck my dick and look good doing it. And because I'm just so generous, I'll go ahead and tell you what you're _not_ here for." When you sit up, he gives you a painful flick between the eyes. "You're not here to _think,_ cupcake. Or talk. Or act, even for a second, like you actually deserve to be in the same _galaxy_ as me. Now, I don't want to hear anything out of your mouth unless I ask for it, 'kay? You get that, sweetheart?"

"I got that." You settle back onto your knees, carefully monotone. "I'm sorry, Jack."

"Yeah, I bet you are. Open up."

He's not gentle. He's zero to sixty from the moment he knows you can take it, or thinks you can - you cup your mouth the right way and let him have his fun, hands planted on your knees while you wait. And you _are_ waiting. He gradually seems to feel it, probably from the lack of struggling, and pulls back until you're sucking on the tip. An experimental push forward, then further, then he just jams himself down your throat. It hurts, and your eyes water, but that's it.

"C'mon, now you're just fucking with me. You're not telling me that _you_ \- the peon, the virgin, the sweet little baby lamb - have no gag reflex. That would just be--"

Another thrust. You don't gag. "--that's just _way_ too funny considering... y'know. I mean, wow. The universe really screwed you over, huh?"

 _Life is unfair,_ you might say, but he's kind of got his cock down your throat. He pulls out and watches you cough, rubbing at your already sore throat. He's back in right away, but he keeps it shallow, watching what you do if he just rocks against your tongue. Watches you hollow your cheeks on the pull back, and hum around him, and flick your tongue in his slit in a way that makes him buck, if only slightly.

"You've _done this before._ " He sounds like he's made some brilliant deduction here. Both his hands net through your hair, nails scraping across your scalp in a way that makes you shiver. "I mean, you probably sucked a _lot_ of dicks to get this good. Low estimate? Like, a hundred."

"I've been with guys."

"Yeah, but you said you'd never _been with_ any of 'em. You know, in the special grown-up way." He does the finger hole and the other finger moving through it thing. "So, what, you just sucked 'em all off?"

"I never wanted to have sex. You can do other things." You peel away the vague tone of irritation. "Sir."

"And daddy's taking time out of his very important schedule to teach you to like it, isn't he?" He flattens your cheek against his thigh, kind of... awkwardly hugging you, you guess, but with his dick just flopping all over the place. Kind of kills the warm fuzzies. "Finish up."

Gladly. You get him to turn and lean back against the wall while you do your thing, which is clean and smooth to the point of seeming mechanical - you're just going through the motions of what porn and other boyfriends told you to do. Lick here. Suck there. Press that spot just behind his balls that makes him suck in a breath through his teeth, and when his hips get erratic, pin them to the wall and scratch at the inside of his thighs and _suck him,_ not entirely surprised when he swears and crams you as far down as possible, riding it out.

You sit back and wipe your mouth. You're also not entirely surprised when he sets his boot in the center of your chest and kicks you onto your back, stepping over you while he fixes his clothes. He goes without a word, probably to some big business meeting or appointment he's hopelessly late for.

It's nice. You fucking hope he's late.


	5. Chapter 5

Sometime during the weekend, killer spec-ops agents try to take over the robotics sector. It really interferes with your day.

Now, you didn't join up to get shot at - actually, being a lame pen jockey was supposed to keep you _away_ from all that horseshit - but these things do happen. That's just the corporate lifestyle. The fighting is mostly contained, but start to drag back towards the Hub as the day wears on and Hyperion's forces continue to press their advantage, pushing them away from robotics. Did these guys hijack a few loaders or something?

But you don't know that they've pushed back to the Hub. That means you come out of the elevator with your smoothie and slip into a hail of gunfire, forcing you behind one of those weirdly well-placed objects that provide cover. It's deafening. Things are exploding. You're at the furthest point away from the action, but Hyperion bullets are coming your way in sheets, rendering the elevator unusable, and the troopers - they have no identifying information on them, but whoever they are, they're good. Well-trained. Great shots, if the carcasses of destroyed loaders are anything to go by. Your howling doesn't rise above the din.

"The one - _fucking_ time I actually need my goddamn shield!"

It's a Pangolin. High capacity. Your health is already low, so it's kind of a risky move to take it even lower, but you've always appreciated the extra insurance and your own ability to get the fuck out of there. Now it's sitting uselessly in your locker, collecting dust, and you're about five inches from eating bullets. If life is unfair _one more time_ you're going to blow something up, you swear to god.

A rocket explodes high to your left. You have to leap to adjoining cover to avoid the bigger chunks of rubble, and somehow, you've drawn their attention - fuck on a _fuck,_ they think you're flanking them, and they react accordingly. Someone takes a few well-placed potshots just over the top of your head, close enough that you can feel them, and wow, that must be _so frustrating_ for those guys. You stay down. You're that guy that won't come up from behind cover.

You see the grenade bounce off the wall and land right between your legs. It's second nature to grab it and throw it back over your shoulder, which is admittedly a pretty badass move - you're relieved to hear it explode somewhere above you.

Then you see the child grenades. There's a hail of them, enough to make the guys on the other side scatter, and you just pick a direction and... jump. The explosions are deafening. Everything is dust and rubble and a fine mist of blood, and the explosion gives your jump a little more oomph than you planned on, sending you sliding square into a wall.

From your painful half-flop, you see someone come out of the smoke. Someone who notices you, strolling over, and gives you a solid kick in the ribs just for good measure. Who flips away rubble with their boot until they see that you're a nobody. They seem to think on it, glancing back at the fight. They look back, shrug. They raise their gun.

You've never seen someone's head explode before. It's actually different than you imagine, because you were thinking, like, crushed watermelon - it's more of a crushed pumpkin deal, exploding up and down rather than to the sides. Bits of gore rain down, and the guy has... the guy has like half a face left, but enough to kind of realize what's happening before he dies. Poor, murderous bastard. When he falls, you have to catch his body with your feet and push him off to the side. You're dizzy, probably concussed enough to hear random noises - like Jack laughing. The guy's so annoying and intrusive that he's penetrated your unconscious thoughts.

Then you're up on your feet and he's actually kind of _there,_ half-cradling you in his arm while he shoots a couple more times. It's pure romance novel cover, him looking dashing, you looking... dirty, bloodsoaked, covered in little pieces of skull, and barely conscious, but whatever. It can't always be perfect. You might be laughing, but there's a deafening whine going on that makes the firefight quiet and soaks up whatever Jack says to you. It might be a one-liner? You can read _kitten_ on his lips.

Then that hold of his kind of turns to a chokehold when he drags you back, his elbow catching in the crook of your throat. He unceremoniously drops you away from the firefight and walks off, disappearing with the sheen of a cloaking device. You follow him, of course, possibly because he sort of told you not to, and watch how it unfolds. Mystery guys aren't doing so hot. They had a considerable advantage in taking robotics, what with the giant killer robots and all, but in a straight up fight - well, the odds are slim. Almost nothing.

So why would someone send a bunch of guys down here to die pointlessly?

You're tired. You left something in your office that you can't go home without. The surprise deploy of turrets has evened the fight, and hell, it might be forever until someone gets robotics up and running again, which you _need_ for the thing you need from the office, which is necessary for another thing that's due in three days. You know that nothing you can or can't do here will even reach back to Jack if you're fast enough, if you can disappear. There's another reason why you pick up the dead soldier's pistol and heft it, heading into a maintenance door, squeezing between the pipes like you did when you were running from Jack - there's a cozy little spot back here that you almost called home, except for the broad, flat opening at the top.

You can stand on nearby pipes and very quietly push the crate that covers it away, popping up to your shoulders. Just two guys, and one of them has his shields down anyway. They're helplessly oblivious as you take aim, and for a quick moment, you consider not doing this. Letting them fight the good fight and die satisfied. It'd be the nice thing to do.

Nah. You're Hyperion for a reason, and the shieldless guy goes down in two clumsy shots while you take a potshot at the other. He has just enough time to look at you and raise his weapon when something bounces off the wall and rolls between you. You squint, realize what it is, and start shouting. Not really at anybody in particular, just kind of at everybody and everything that exists.

"Why did it have to be a fucking--"

 _Shock grenade,_ you would finish, but the thing goes off.

Because life is unfair.

___

See, it's not strong enough to kill you or knock you out for more than a few seconds, which means it wasn't full power. You could buy better than this off a bandit that won't stop slapping himself in the face and doesn't know what a grenade is. That means it was weak on purpose - meant to stun, not kill. None of this particularly helps while you lie on the floor of this little gutter thing, flat on your back, muscles twitching too violently to move, but it gives you something to do, something to focus on. For a moment, you're terrified that it's screwed with the rhythm of your heart and you're dying - that you're going to die in this crummy little hole, alone, in the dark. Your wheezes attract attention.

 _There's a guy down here,_ someone says. _Yeah, the gutter. He's not one of--_

First, you see a gun. Then you see a mismatched pair of eyes widening ever so slightly when he recognizes you. He offers a hand.

"You got yourself in there. Now get yourself out."

"I can't--"

" _Out,_ " Jack snarls, and there's a timbre in it that has you forcing your twitching, uncooperative muscles to work. You're not dying when you stumble over and grab his hand, hooking your feet on the pipes to push yourself up, although it certainly feels like it - you're not dying when you have to cram yourself through the slot, even if there's a scare where your hips stick and Jack just starts yanking at you. Once you're out, he's dragging you to your feet.

"Spotless," he says to the cleaners, watching them heave corpses. "I want it _spotless._ If I come back and it still looks like crap, your families are taking an extended vacation to an eridium mine. Get to work."

People instantly jump back to whatever they were doing, but he has different plans for you. Jack slings an arm around the small of your back and forcefully leads you down the hall, towards... wherever. It doesn't really matter when the place is deserted. Is he pissed? Did you steal his glory? Jack his kills? You're almost too tired to care, leaning against him. His fingers curl into your hip.

You get the idea that maybe he's feeling _something,_ but it isn't murderous. Yet.

He just picks the room at random. This part of the station is close enough to the firefight that it's been evacuated, meaning there's no one to see you when he wheels the two of you into the residential apartments for the higher-ups. He's got a master keycard, of course, and it looks like the first empty room is the one he goes with (bad news for Hugo Vasquez, whoever that is). He locks it behind you, and now you notice how hard he's breathing, how tight his grip is - how he drops the card once he's done with it, and his eyes, god, his _eyes._ His pupils are blown.

Razing that bandit town Haven or whatever must have been really, really exciting for him.

It's a stupid thought. You're against the door in an instant, mulling over that stupid thought while he fits his mouth over yours with a genuine, bone-deep _groan_ of satisfaction that rattles down your spine. It sounds greedy, demanding, and unbelievably relieved - sounds like a man coming back to real food after years of bread and water. His biting is sharp and mindless, occasionally catching his own tongue or clicking your teeth together in painful fashion, and when he slams his fist into the wall beside you and growls, there's a distinct lack of the clever, cruel treatment you've grown used to - he doesn't pick at you, doesn't seem to have the presence of mind to be mean. He hooks his hand in your hair and yanks your head back to kiss you at another angle, one that has him leaning down and you with your throat bared, essentially helpless, and you get that first brush of bodies. The grind is downright dirty.

He presses the kiss open-mouthed. You feel dizzy.

Somewhere around the kiss, which is absorbing most of your attention, you get the idea to cup him through his pants. He _is_ hard, and he snarls against your mouth, his hips pushing into your palm.

"Careful." No _kitten,_ no _babe._ "Doing _really_ good not fucking you into the foundation right now."

You take the opportunity to laugh at him, squeezing harder. "Why aren't you?"

Whatever fragile attempt at control he has evaporates. You end up face-first against the wall while he yanks down your clothes, yanks at his. When he shoves his hand in your face, you spit obediently and almost immediately feel the weirdly sticky, admittedly uncomfortable push in - you've been getting it regular, so you don't need a whole lot of prep, but it's still unpleasant when all he's using is spit and--

"Is that - _blood?_ " Your skin sticks to his in a way it shouldn't. "Are you using--"

Blood. His clothes are soaked with it for god knows what reason, and now you're leaving smears of it on the walls while he handles you. when he sets a brutal pace that hurts him as much as it hurts you, if not more. You're kind of just waiting for him to get done, he's not even enjoying himself - it's kind of an awkward situation. When his hips snap tight against yours, his whole body trembling, you doubt he even feels it. This wild neediness can't be normal, or else you would've heard about how Handsome Jack gets it up for atrocities like all the other gossip about him.

When he slips to the floor, he takes you with him, flattening you out, laying on top.

"Do you - is it usually like this for you?" You grunt, trying to get your arm into a more comfortable position. "After killing people?"

"Nah." He sounds ragged, but more like himself. "That? Was not normal. You should know that by now."

"These clothes are disgusting."

He sits up, riding your hips, and slits your shirt up the back with a knife. It has to be a knife. It skims a faint bleeding line just between your shoulders that he leans over and licks.

"Then let's take 'em off."

Out of your pants, and he takes care to cut your underwear off in slow, painful fashion just to dramatically toss it aside. When you try to sit up and watch him undress, he pushes you back down, squeezing your nape to remind you where you stand. Of course. Don't forget.

When he wraps around you, framing you on your knees and forcing you lower, he's all skin. It's kind of thrilling, actually.

"We're in a bedroom and we still can't use the bed?"

"What is your friggin' fixation with _beds?_ " But he's in a good mood, lapping at your nape. "Yeah, maybe. If you're good. Get up on your knees. Got an idea."

The idea involves ripping a few strips off your soiled shirt. With visible hesitance, you watch him tie your wrists in front of you. That's manageable, at least. When he comes at you with the blindfold, you get skittish, flinching away. Being sighted around Jack is bad enough, but bound and _blind--_

"C'mon, kitten. What's wrong?" He's purring. "You don't trust me?"

"Of - course I do." You let out a defeated exhale, head drooping. "Of course I do."

"Of course you do. Wouldn't hurt you for the world, sweetheart." He ties the blindfold on, and everything is swallowed up in black. All you have to grasp onto is Jack's jeering voice as he takes your chin and turns your head up. "What would daddy do without his baby boy, huh?"

You groan. It's not a particularly sexy groan. When he squeezes your jaw hard enough to hurt, the noise you make is subservient enough for him to forgive you.

"Alright, c'mere. Yeah, just like - turn around. Move your leg. Sit, boy."

The position is weird and uncomfortable - for you, of course, not for him. All he has to do is sit there. You're the one with the tie for your hands stretched around the back of his neck, keeping them up and away, and sit in his lap. You're the one who's open for touching, having to sit through Jack's relatively gentle attention at either side of your neck and the hands that ghost your ribs. You're the one that has to feel his cock digging at the small of your back, slick enough to leave a trail wherever it rubs. Is the extra lube like an apology, in his own special way?

He lifts your legs, guides you down, and bounces you in his lap with an infuriatingly satisfied groan. No, you don't think he's apologizing.

"Now _that_ \- that is nice. Nowhere to be, nothin' to do, just killed like, a _whole bunch_ of jackasses--" You bounce, letting out a little _ah._ It's an entirely new position, and he's adjusting to it too, figuring out where he needs to grab you. "--and rubbin' one out in style. God, my life is great."

It's new. It's more helpless than you're used to. It involves plenty of pressing back into Jack's chest and neck with a whine, his hands _everywhere,_ and feeling so terribly exposed that you try to hide your face in his neck.

"Aw. That's cute." He stops, wrapping tighter, shifting the way he's sitting. "Nobody's ever touched you like this, huh? Except you, maybe. At night. When you're all alone in your little apartment. Did you ever used to wonder what it was like?"

"Y-yes--"

" _Good_ boy!" The next thrust reveals the real point of this position, putting him at a perfect angle to grind against your prostate. Your voice breaks against the walls. "Love an honest man. Is it what you imagined?"

"Better," you breathe, and win a couple more precise thrusts. He's so good at that.

"Toldja, kid. You didn't know what you were missing out on." A snort of laughter. "Doesn't hurt that I'm the one holding your hand. There's shit I could show you that would blow your friggin' mind. Right, yeah, hold on."

His grip shifts, giving him enough room to piston his hips and steal your breath. _Right, yeah,_ like it's an afterthought, like getting you off is something he's deigning to do, You won't last long, but for what little time you do, you cling to him and scratch his name out in several different volumes. He's in your ear the entire time. _That's right, you're good, babe, you're good, c'mon you little slut, come for daddy, come for me--_

He bites at the shell of your ear and you come, untouched and trembling, in his lap - he fucks you through it until you're whimpering, then gets your arms from around his neck and unceremoniously drops you off to the side. You land square on your face. You're still shaky when you sit up and pull the blindfold down around your neck, turning back to face him.

"You know, this would be easier for me if you didn't give a shit." You rub at your wrists. "Like the first time."

"Yeah, no. I gotta have my fun, kitten." He's still hard, sitting back against the side of the bed. You're going to have to deal with that. "And hey! Maybe you _are_ the special one. Y'know, the one who I end up liking too much to kill and keep around? Wet dream of like, half the galaxy?"

"And people actually _believe_ that?"

"Worked for Nisha. One in a billion chance, kiddo, but who says it can't work for you?"

This is sick. The flutter in your chest at the idea of being _the special one_ is sick. The fact that you're already crawling over to deal with his hard-on, not having been asked to, is sick. You're sick.

You're getting really, really sick.

"Nnnnot really looking to get blown, kid." He pulls a face. "Kinda gross."

"Good." You settle in his lap, bringing him down for a kiss. He's alright with it, but lazy. Lets you do all the work. Folds his arms behind his head and lounges, giving you absolutely no indication to keep going or stop. He's being incredibly nice waiting for you to bounce back in the first place, so you feel obligated to keep him entertained in the meantime.

It's only fair.

"Be nice though, right?" He's crooning, head laid back against the bedframe as he watches you. "Being arm candy. Somebody keeping the other side of the bed warm."

"A pet."

"Gilded cage, baby."

"A torture doll."

"I mean - probably not? Unless you _really_ shit something up, maybe. Believe me, I've got plen-ty of people on the torture waiting list right now."

You have nothing for that, frustrated with your own refractory period. Come on, dick, get with the program. Be an excuse to pull away when Jack bumps his knee in your back and brings you closer, mouth at your neck.

"You could give it all up. All that stress, all that fear, all that... _apprehension._ " He's at your carotid. A bite could kill you. "No more bills. No more work. No more letters from your bitch mom telling you that the money you send isn't enough. Taste it on your lips, babe. All you have to do is tell me that I'm all you want."

For his main claim to fame being strangling, he's actually really good at the manipulation angle too. You give him a second to think he's got his teeth in, hands at his chest, pressing your cheek against his.

"Go to hell, Jack."

He laughs, unbothered, and drags you up onto the bed by your hair. "Didn't think you'd go for it. I mean, _pshhh,_ I'm not the center of your entire life, right? You've got friends. A job. Family, even if you hate 'em. Should have expected it."

He bottoms out in one smooth press, humming low as he pats your flank. He's not done by a mile.

"But if you ever _really_ want some fun, let me know. Got all my gear upstairs. Kiddo, I could _ruin_ you for anyone else." The first snap of his hips. You spread your knees - he presses you down. "Wouldn't ever be able to get fucked again without thinking of me."

You don't answer, shoving the pillow off so you don't accidentally smother. The pace is steady, hard - nothing out of the usual, although it's taking a lot longer to get into it. It's when he dips his head and sets it on your shoulder that you groan, burying your face in the mattress.

"Not that you'd go and _forget_ about me, right?"

"Never." That's for-fucking-sure. "Could never."

"There's my good boy." He drags you onto your knees and reaches around to jerk you off, earning a little moan and a sway of your hips. "Just like that. You're a mouthy little slut, but daddy loves you anyway."

It takes so much longer this time - feels good, but the build up isn't so fast. Your knees are getting tired.

"You close yet?" You throw a look back. "At all?"

"Aww, someone's _impatient._ What's the problem, princess?" He yanks your head up by your hair. "Am I boring you? Is this fuck not up to your standards?"

"No, it's just--"

He drops you with a mean laugh, shoving your head down in the sheets. "I'm just screwin' with you, babe. _Love_ seeing you fall all over yourself to keep me happy. Now, since you've been guarding that ass like a Vault, you probably don't know this, but it takes longer the second time around. Helpful tip if you ever get your dick wet: pop your cork in the bathroom first. You'll thank me."

You're on your back in a blur, watching him drag your bound wrists and loop the cloth around this dumb decorative little hook in the headboard. It keeps you from hiding your face and, whenever you slip up, gives you full view of his great chest and working muscles, the death grip he's got on your hip, and the fact that he's watching you the _entire time,_ teeth bared in a half-grin, not shy about letting out pleased hisses and little moans that hit you hard.

For a while, you don't talk. Sometimes he moves a little, sometimes you stretch and crack your back, but it's pleasantly straightforward - a nice, slow build that culminates in you both getting into it, his head on your shoulder, you panting in his ear. It's not _bad._ It's not always bad with Jack. It's overwhelmingly bad, sure, but every once in a while he gets tired and distracted and stops running his mouth for like five minutes. It's good.

The door opening is not good. This Vasquez guy takes one look at the two of you and freezes in the doorway, eyes like saucers. Jack grabs a little picture frame from the nightstand and hurls it at the wall beside the guy's head, making him jump when it shatters.

"Uh, _occupied?_ " A sneer. "Unless you're planning on coming over here and tickling my ass, piss off."

"Right - right! Yeah, that's--" Vasquez raises his hands, stepping back into the hall. "Of course, sir. Take all the time you want. Thank you, sir."

Gone. You have to snort laughter, twisting off into a little groan when he starts up again. "Good to be king, huh?"

"You know it, babe." He pulls your arms from the headboard. "Now play with yourself so we can get done here. Places to be, kitten."

It doesn't take too long when you're both hurrying things up. You come, he comes - you let him lie on top for a bit, your arms wrapped around his neck, and realize just how _tired_ you are. Would this Vasquez guy throw a fit if you just slept here? Probably, since Jack gets up and drags himself back into his stiff, bloody clothes. You reluctantly shrug into yours, stepping over the broken glass and bloodstains and pitying this Vasquez guy for the cleanup. You're expecting him to leave without a word, but he stops at the door.

"Got a question for you, kitten." You finish buttoning your shirt, looking up. "Why'd you get involved? Let's be real, here - you're not exactly tough stuff. That shooting was crap. You're kinda crap in general. You're not a hero. " He turns, cocking his head. "Are you?"

"No." Dear god, no. Not in Jack's territory. "I don't know. I wanted to turn in my robotics crap and go home, and I needed something from there, and--"

"And you jumped into a firefight? Nah." He turns fully. "Don't buy it. Now, I'm gonna be real nice and ask you again: why'd you get involved?"

You have to think on it. Why _did_ you jump in, really? The irritation was part of it, but the weight of the gun in your hands - the way it kicked back when you pulled the trigger- the way they just fell--

"I wanted to kill someone," you admit, eyes down. "I wanted to know what it was like to kill someone."

He's quiet for a moment. You don't know what you're expecting when he comes closer, but him kissing you again is pretty low on the list. You can feel him smile through it, curling his fingers around your nape and pressing your foreheads together.

"That's my boy." You get a condescending little pat on the cheek. "Take it easy, kid."

You're instructed to wait fifteen minutes after Jack. When you do, Vasquez is standing by the door looking mildly stricken. He leans away from you.

"Uh - yeah," you say, hooking a thumb back at his apartment, "sorry. Pretty sure Jack already threatened your organs if you tell anyone, so... my advice is to burn the sheets. Yeah. Have a good one."

With that settled, you move on. Time for a shower, jeez.


	6. Chapter 6

"I need you to help me kill Handsome Jack."

"Nope," you say, standing up. "Nope. _Nope._ "

This is not how you wanted to spend lunch. You're halfway out of the empty break room before she grabs your arm, yanking you back. Considering that she works out more than you do, it isn't hard for her. You back up, tearing out of her grip, and raise your hands.

"Look," Helle says, trying to sound compassionate, "I just want you to hear me out. Diego told me what he's doing to you. You want out of that, right?"

"No, _no,_ I just love being the guy Handsome Jack likes to empty his balls into! Are you _kidding?_ " You have your face in your hands. "I don't deserve this. Jack probably eats human livers regularly and his life kicks ass. My life is a _comedy_ of _errors._ Why is life so--"

To be fair, you kind of needed that slap in the face. Helle waits until you come back around to grab you by the shoulders.

"Foster, I'm not asking you to stab him in bed or anything. You barely have to get involved. You're just the only one close enough to him who isn't up to their shoulders in his ass. You get us what we want and we can guarantee you transport off of Helios and out of this star system. A new life. A better life."

"Who's _we?_ "

She looks at you like you're stupid. To be fair, it was a stupid question. "Everyone who wants a change in president? Jack is _nuts._ You can't just leave a guy like that alone. We want him gone."

"How do I know he's not listening right now?"

"Camera's on a loop. We only get about five minutes, so I'll make this quick." She leans in and takes you by your shoulders. Wow, she's just really... really good-looking. You cringe at using the word, but she's _handsome._ "We need you to work your way into his penthouse. From there you'll insert a chip in his computer that we can strip of information, and once you get it back to us, you're gone. We promise. _I_ promise."

"I can't do this. You don't know what you're asking."

"I can imagine."

"No, you really _can't._ " You brush her hands off, stepping back. "Look, if I go up there, he is seriously going to fuck me up. I might come back without limbs. Or as some half-cyborg sexbot. Or he'll drug me and I'll have some mind-destroying nervous breakdown. Or I'll die of orgasms. You don't know, you haven't been with him."

"You can't die from orgasms."

"Sounds like a good way to go, doesn't it?" Your laugh is forced. _Ha ha ha._ "Yeah, it's not."

You're both quiet for a moment, considering each other. Maybe you don't look so positive on your answer. She looks like she's really, really thinking about this, about the risks. Considering these are Hyperion agents, they probably actually don't give two craps about your well-being as long as you get them what they want, but Helle seems genuinely concerned. She _knows_ what she's asking.

She steps forward and takes your hand, passing over a chip.

"Think about it." She smiles pleasantly. "If you try to turn us in to Jack, we've got enough to take you down with us, so I wouldn't."

"Great. Awesome. I love blackmail. And I'm literally going to kill your cousin, so don't wait up for him."

She waves as she leaves, leaving you stuck with a chip and a decision. There's no point thinking on it for now, so you stow it away and get back to work, spitefully squishing your little plastic cup as you go.

Diego meets up with you after your shift, beaming. He doesn't look so terribly pleased when you sock him in the gut. He doubles over, hacking, and you drink it in.

"What th - what the _hell,_ Foster?"

"What the hell _Foster?_ What the hell _Diego!_ " You grab him by his arm, dragging him away from the busy halls. People are staring. You couldn't care less. "Where do you get off telling your cousin about - _everything?_ "

"I thought she could help. She's--"

"Yeah, we had a chat about it. You put me on their radar." There's a nice little corner for the two of you to back into, keeping you out of the main traffic. "Now I've got _corporate rebels_ up my ass, and considering Jack was already there, it's getting a little tight. I don't have much room left in there, Diego!"

He lifts his hands, palms out. _Woah there._

"I'm sorry, alright? I thought it might help to have someone to talk to about it. I'll talk to her about it, get her to lay off you. They can't _make_ you do anything, anyway."

"I _know._ " You rub your knuckles in your eyes until you see stars. "I know. It's just not what I needed right now. She's trying to get me out of the frying pan and into the _sun._ He invited me up to his place whenever I wanted, which is where your cousin wants me, but he talked about his _gear_ like it was medieval." I just - I don't know what to _do--_ "

The hug is nice. It smooshes your head right over his heart and gets you to finally, finally relax a little, leaning into it.

"I'm sorry, Foster."

You laugh, and words that could be Jack's tumble out of you.

"You should be."

He laughs in your ear. You don't let go.

\---

After the next quickie - blowing him in a maintenance closet, a mop handle digging into your side, _ow_ \- you're not expecting Miles and Safra to corner you. Your hair is still messy, your face reddish, and ugh, there's still the _taste._ They close in, arms out to prevent any bolting.

"Diego told us."

"I'm gonna kill that guy." You spit to the side, already walking. "Look, don't get involved. This doesn't involve either of you."

"We knew you were with _somebody,_ but we thought you just didn't want to tell us." Miles catches up first. "We didn't know it was - you know."

" _You know_ explicitly threatened your safety if I told you."

" _So?_ " Safra steers you out of the main hall. You have work to do, dammit. "That's our problem, not yours."

"I didn't want to put you two in danger."

"Well, we're involved _now,_ so consider the danger... put... in." The two of them squeeze tighter together around you. "So what are we gonna do about it?"

" _Do?_ You two aren't doing anything. This is _my_ problem. Just let me deal with it."

"We _have_ let you deal with it and now you look like shit. And, no offense? But you're way more of an asshole than you used to be. Unpleasantness must be venereal."

Your laugh tapers off into a groan. They pull you off to the side and crowd around.

"So... what's he like?" Safra leans in. "Handsome Jack. What's he like in person?"

"Well, you know how much of an asshole he comes off as? It's just a shell. It's not the _real_ him." You lower your voice. "Underneath that shell of asshole is another denser layer of jackass, followed by a bedrock of psychotic douchebag."

Miles whistles low. "What's he like in bed? I mean, you still have all your limbs and stuff, so..."

You yank down the collar of your shirt, stunning them with a half dozen or so bite marks in various stages of healing. "I'm on antibiotics, like, all the time now. And he's just disgusting? He gets blood all over the place and it doesn't even have to be ours. He never wears a condom. My blood is probably _swimming_ with hard drugs and weird alien parasites right now. And get this: just the other day, he invites me up to his penthouse to see his red room of pain."

"Fifty shades of Hyperion." Miles winces. "That's rough."

"And he likes to be called _daddy._ "

"Awkward," Safra chimes in. "But is he any good? You know, if you just... completely ignore everything that comes out of his mouth?"

"Yeah," you admit, shrugging. "He's really good. Preeetty sure I'm not his first fuckboy. I just want out before he gets bored and eats my liver with fava beans and a nice Chianti."

"You know we're behind you. And if you leave, everyone you knew is probably screwed, so..."

You glance between them. They've talked about this.

"If you go, we go."

What do you even say to that? Suddenly there's sand in your eyes. Or it's been raining on your face. Or _whatever._ It's not tactically wise to let them hug you, but it's so nice - it's _so_ unbelievably nice to finally talk to someone about it. Someone is listening. Someone understands. You finally have someone in your ear who isn't jeering and trying to, you know, destroy your entire individuality for funsies.

"Guys, Diego's cousin... has a plan."

They lean back, and you tell them.

\---

You're in black when you stroll into Jack's office uninvited. High collar, geometric pattern, all sharp lines, and it _clings._ He's in the middle of a call, his current threat stutter-stumbling over itself when he glances up.

"Just - just send it to me, alright? If your people crapped it up, believe me. You'll know."

Click. At least his office being so unreasonably goddamn big gives you time to puff up, your back straight, your shoulders and head held high. He's already losing the glasses, propping his chin in his hand.

"Well, he _llo._ What's the occasion?"

"No occasion."

"You didn't show up for work today, princess."

"Didn't feel like it."

"Guess that's one way to quit." He cocks his head. "Can't keep you on after a no-show like that. You're fired."

But he's interested, even more so when you sweep a stack of books onto the floor and sit on his desk. These pants are so tight you might need power tools to get out of them, but your ass looks _fantastic,_ so it's a decent trade-off. You sit with your back to him, your face obscured.

"That's too bad. I liked that job." Sound fluttery and dramatic. Bat your eyes at him. Try not to laugh. "Any new _positions_ opening up?"

"I can think of a few." He snorts, grabbing you by the arm and turning you around. "Seriously, though. Cut the flirty crap. What's your angle here?"

"Been thinking about what you said. The penthouse?"

"Oh, right. Right." He leans back, rapping his knuckles on the desk. "The penthouse. Did kinda blurt that one out, huh? Nnnnnot gonna lie, I was bombed as _hell_ when I said that."

He doesn't even _remember?_ With mild panic, you laugh. "You talked about your gear."

"Sure I did." Once you're facing him, he sets a hand just above your knee. "What's with the pretty getup? You want something? Money, drugs, murder, what?"

"I - I came for you." It's distressing that that wasn't his first thought. "I wanted to see the penthouse."

"Oh, baby." His hand slinks inwards, fingers tapping on the raised lines. "That's so _cute._ Coming to me all dressed up and pretty. Gotta say - you're a great piece of ass."

He shoves you.

"But daddy's busy. Maybe if you're real real good from now on, I'll--"

You slam your boot on the paper he was reaching for, hauling yourself back up. He is _not_ throwing you or your battered corpse out without a fight. You make that clear when you pull yourself back up, hands and knees on the desk before you reach out and grab him by his shirt.

"I want to see the _penthouse._ "

Now, reasonably, you should die. He would put a pen through your eye and into your brain and kick you out of an airlock for daring to raise your voice at him, or for messing up his papers, or for a million other inconsequential reasons. In fact, you should have died four chapters ago and a dozen times since. For some reason, it doesn't work out like that. Huh.

He's clean about it. Fist in your gut, and then he grabs you by the face and rolls his chair back, throwing you to the ground. You chip a tooth on the tile and turn over, only to get pushed back down with a foot in your chest. He's leaning down enough to make it hard to breathe.

"Baby. Babe. Sweetheart. Kit-ten. Who the hell do you think you _are?_ " His tone is dangerously chipper. More weight. "I'm sorry, I don't think I put enough emphasis on that statement. Let's try this again. Who the _hell--_ "

Harder.

"--do you think--"

His full weight. Pushing at his leg does nothing. He finishes in a roar that echoes tenfold.

"--you **are?** Huh?"

The pressure lessens, but he gives you a solid kick in the ribs instead. You end up on your side, able to watch him walk over and kick you again, and then again, again. He's got a really good kick. You think you hear something crack. When he stomps on your face, you definitely hear something crack.

"--ink you can order _me_ around? You think you're hot shit? _I'm_ the one calling the sho--"

Something something something. His weight on your chest. You spit a mouthful of blood, and what you're pretty sure is a headbutt sends you reeling - you kind of space out until the strangling, a vice grip that threatens to crush your windpipe outright.

"--at kind of schemey shit are you into anyway, huh? _Jack nooooo_ one day, and the next you come in here with your fuck-me boots and more flair than that twinky little ass of yours can handle." Tighter. "I don't _trust_ you. I don't even really _like_ you. You're only still alive because you fulfill one purpose, and one purpose only - keeping me happy. Specifically, keeping my dick happy."

Well, that's one way to clear the air. He lets you breathe and bangs your face against the glass of his window a couple of times instead, and then he leaves you there, pacing off to do... whatever, probably yell at the air or target shoot with infants. In the meantime, you have an absolutely _breathtaking_ view of Pandora to bleed internally to, so that's nice. At least there's that.

It'd be a nice view to die to, but you're almost living purely on stubbornness at this point. It's awful - every movement makes something ache or burn, your breaths whistle, you're almost entirely blind, and it's only going to get worse, but you pick yourself up on hands and knees and peek around his desk. You can't see him. He'd be here gloating over you if he was still in the room, right?

 _Asshole._ It comes out as a gurgle.

So pick yourself up. Take it slow, use the desk, and spitefully bleed on all his things, but get up. You have to get up. It's Fight For Your Life mode all the way to the door. You're close enough to it to overhear _come clean this crap up_ before he looks up. You can see this because he suddenly stops in your peripheral - looking him in the face seems like a less than sane idea when he's so wildly unpredictable.

"Well, look at you." He pads closer, hands in his pockets. "How ya doin', kiddo? That's real impressive. Good job!"

He slaps you in the back hard enough to send you back to the ground, and then everything is pain and howling and the taste of blood. He sits on the fountain adjacent, whistling long and low.

" _Real_ impressive. Hard to kill little son of a bitch, aren't you?" Your reply is muffled groaning. He's happy to fill in your part too. "Mm, yeah. I know I broke, like, two of your ribs. Blood in your lungs, kiddo. There's no way you're making it to the door. Why don't you just give up?"

You're back on hands and knees, and then have to use the fountain to drag yourself onto your feet.

"Come _on._ I mean, I can appreciate a will to live, but this is... this is just getting _sad._ " Miracle of miracles, you've moved far enough that he has to scoot down the length of the fountain, stretching out comfortably. "You're gonna die, kid. Just draaaaaggin' out the inevitable."

You don't answer, gritting your jaw. You have to bring an arm up to wipe the blood out of your good eye. He notices.

"Aw, am I discouraging you? It's just cold, hard facts. You - right here, right now - are gonna die. Kick the bucket. Buy the farm. Feed the skag. It's basically inevitable."

Now you're _really_ going to make it to the door, because fuck this guy. _Fuck this guy._ When calling insults at your back doesn't work, he comes into step with you, leaning over your shoulder. Devil and angel deal, except the angel never showed up.

"I'll even give you something for the pain. Just lay down and... that's it. It'll be like falling asleep."

 _Fuck_ this _guy._

"I'll set up your little friends with turbomansions."

Fuck him.

"You can have one last kiss."

You spit a mouthful of blood at his feet, which seems to answer his question. When you finally make it to the door, he holds it open for you - you make a point of using the other one. He says nothing behind you as you pad out into the lobby, leaning bodily up against the receptionist's desk. She recoils when she sees you.

"Can I use your phone?"

In reality, you just gurgle _phone_ until someone figures it out.

___

"Oh my god, you look like _shit._ "

Helios med facilities are nice in a cold, sterile, don't-touch-anything kind of way. Basically everything is new. You don't appreciate Miles calling Safra, who called Diego, who called his cousin, who - well. You've had a string of visitors, which is the sort of attention-grabbing thing you don't need right now. Miles and Safra are the only ones now.

"Did you really have to go all the way down to the Hub before they'd come get you?"

"Well, yeah." Miles cuts in. "Nobody wants to kill steal from _Jack._ "

"I was talking to Foster, asshole." Safra. She leans in, examining your eyes. "Wow, that - that went really badly. What did you _do?_ "

For your part, you kind of just let them talk, sitting on one of those medical exam table things. The healing services are _great,_ but your insurance through the company means you only really qualify for life-saving or seriously disabling care. You can breathe again, even if it hurts. Your face is in one piece. Your entire head is throbbing with pain. Stuff is broken. Other stuff _feels_ like it's broken.

"I'll tell you everything when I don't feel like I'm dying, alright? Just - help me back to my place."

___

The next few days pass in a cool, painful blur. Mostly because you stay in your apartment with the lights off. You've got no job, no prospects, no assistance from those rebel assholes, nowhere to _live_ now that you're no longer a Hyperion employee, and just enough in savings to get to Pandora or any of the other surrounding hellhole border planets. You're too afraid of Jack popping up to even go outside now.

You're fucked.

"I am so _fucked,_ " you tell the empty air sometimes. Sometimes you swear at nobody. Most times you just eat or sleep. Your friends drop by when they can, bringing food and reassurance, but there's only so long that this can last. Something has to break.

One evening - or is it morning? Time is hard to tell in space - it does.

The knocking is steady. You're half-asleep and ignore it, knowing that your friends will come back later, but the sound of the door opening stops you cold. He flips on the lights. You open your eyes.

"Miss me?"


	7. Chapter 7

It's not him holy crap _it's not him._ The man is vaguely familiar - round and red-faced and shit, isn't that one of the guys that worked upstairs with you? You're half out of bed in nothing but tasteful boxer-briefs with cat face patterning and he is _laughing,_ holding up some dinky bit of metal you don't recognize.

"Sorry, not him. These voice things are _badass_ though, huh?"

It's not him.

"It's broken, but I got it on the DL. Don't tell on me, alright?"

It's not _him._

"I'm supposed to come down here and make sure you didn't hang yourself with the shower curtain. He sent me _personally._ " He sounds so proud of himself for having attracted Jack's attention for even a moment, leaning in your doorway. "Damn, Foster, you are looking _rough._ He did that, huh?" And, cheerily, in Jack's voice: "Cutie-poo, was the foreplay too much for you to handle?"

 _It's not him,_ but it's someone who made you think they were him. Who is still pretending to be him, in a way. To you. When he can't even _imagine_ the shit you've been through. Maybe he can see the way you suddenly feel distant from your body, leaning back into your covers. He whistles at you.

"Come on, let's _go._ Get some clothes on. Nice boxers, by the way. Ever consider investing in Hyperion-issue?"

Still faint, you manage some pants and pass by him on the way to the bathroom. You can handle all of this, see, because you're a reasonable human being. You're not Handsome Jack. You can let assholes be assholes - you really, honestly can. But then he grabs your shoulder, wraps his fingers around the back of the neck to hold you like a dog, and steers your face up.

"How 'bout you give daddy a ki--"

As it turns out, murderous rage starts out a lot like a head cold. It fogs your head, makes your sinuses burn and your eyes - just - stop working, kind of, slipping into some dumbed cnidarian state where you're only really capable of seeing movement and light. Things move slow and very, very fast at the same time, and some part of you wonders on that while you take the bloodied man to the ground and wrap your hands around his throat. Where did you hit him? Your hand hurts, but there's too much blood for it to be just a punch.

Maybe it's yours. Hard to tell.

You never thought you'd want to kill anyone this badly. You knew, coming into a career with the vaunted Hyperion corporation, that you would _hate_ people - that you would spend good time fantasizing about beating or strangling them, possibly shoving them in a vat of acid or a stalker cage, but this is different. You've never looked at someone and felt the impulse to _kill_ \- not until you came here. His nails tear your hands and arms to ribbons and someone is screaming, which makes sense, you've probably spilled right into the residential district - that's okay, it's not a problem. It'll be at least another thirty seconds before Hyperion guards come to beat your ass and put you in jail. That gives you and your buddy some together time. He goes from lilac to a darling shade of baby blue.

You feel something you've never felt before, staring down into his watery, reddening, panic-stricken eyes. A swell of emotion you can't name right now, but will.

Twenty-one seconds in, someone finally works up the nerve to pull you off, reaching under your armpits and lacing his fingers behind your head. _Calm the fuck down, what the fuck is wrong with you,_ et cetera. At twenty-five, you fight. Twenty-eight sees you pinned against a wall.

At precisely thirty-one seconds, you see a flash of Hyperion yellow in your peripheral. The guy is trying to talk to them.

"Yeah, he was just crazy, he--"

"Clear the area." There's two of them, upper echelon Hyperion guards, and one raises their gun. Good ol' trigger-happy Hyperion firearms training. The man backs off immediately, and they take you by the arm instead. "We're done here."

"But look at this guy! Aren't you going to call medics?"

One of them answers by bringing their rifle up and smashing the butt into the guy's gut, then kicking him to the floor. You have to step over two prone bodies while they lead you - quite politely, if you're honest - down the hall. When it's only the humming elevator and your own breathing, you start to notice a dripping sound. It's definitely you, but you're not entirely sure where from.

\---

"Go on, get outta here," he tells your guards. They get outta there. Without the one to support you, you have to go sit down - half-collapse on one of the fountains in his office, really, wetting your neck. Is the water pink from your hands, or from your face? "As for you - _wow._ Trying to kill people while half-naked? Really jumping up the depravity ladder there, kiddo."

"Yeah, well - I was _going_ to get a shirt." You give up and just stick your entire head in the fountain, coming back up with a gasp and combing your hair back out of your face. "Seriously."

"Right."

He's not listening. In fact, you're decently sure he's been busy _staring_ at you, although that's not a surprise - your entire torso is a map of purple-black blotches, and your face is... well. Black eyes, crooked nose, split lip. You look like a fucking calico cat with all the bruising. To top it all off, you wear an imprint of his hands like a collar, the distinct shape of fingers standing out on the plane of your throat.

"C'mere," he says, waving you over. He does you the honor of pulling his feet off the desk and facing you as you round it, and he looks okay since your last run-in; his knuckles look banged up from, you know, _breaking your face,_ but he's as droll and severe as ever. When you stop a few feet away, he sighs. "When I tell you to come here, I super extra special promise that it actually means _come here._ Now."

You close the distance, and he reaches out to hook you in the beltline and drag you forward the last few inches.

"Like you have anywhere else to be, Fight Club." He snorts, pressing his thumb into a particularly nasty bruise over your ribs. You wince. "Man, I really - _really_ fucked you up, huh?"

"Generally what happens when you beat people, isn't it?"

"Hey! _Hey._ " Pressing into the bruise harder, he scolds you. "Be _nice._ I'm already tempted to finish what I started, kid. Don't goad me."

You try not to. He seems satisfied with what he sees, humming, turning his attention to your throat.

"Strangling, huh? Always figured you for a knife man."

"It was kind of unplanned."

"Guy almost died." There's a hand on your hip. "Larynx injury."

"Probably when they pulled me off. Grabbed whatever I could."

"Your hands are tore all to shit. You notice that yet?" He watches you lift your arms, examining the backs of your palms. You're the one that's been bleeding, apparently - everything below the elbow is bloody or bleeding. There's another hand flattened across your stomach, dragging inquisitively down your ribs. "You're getting blood everywhere, kid."

"Huh." You cock your head, not fighting the push at the small of your back that puts you nearly on top of him. "Didn't notice."

"Why'd you jump him?"

"He got a hold of one of those voice modulator things. Sounded like you." You're not looking at his face, but you can practically feel the raised brows, fingers curling just that much tighter into you. "Tried to fuck around with me."

"You're going grimdark, Foster." He hikes your knee up onto the chair, putting you halfway in his lap.

"Literally."

"Kinda hot."

"I am in a remarkable amount of pain right now."

"Even hotter." Another yank. You _are_ in his lap now, in a prime position for him to bite at your collarbone. His hand slides down the back of your pants like it belongs there. "Wanna know a secret? That voice modulator? Total trap. Wanted to see which little shit kept making off with my discard tech. I was _gonna_ wait until you two came in to blow his head off, nice surprise for you and all, but you took care of him for me. Great job, kiddo."

"You said he _almost_ died."

"Yeah," he purrs, mouth against your ear, "but I lied. Guy's dead. How do you feel?"

Bad. Terrible. You should feel terrible. You take a moment to answer, letting a few breaths filter steadily in and out.

"Powerful." That's the only word for it. You feel desperately ill and mindlessly thrilled at the same time; the shaking of your hands contrasts the nasty calm in your tone. "I feel powerful."

"Good answer." There are teeth scraping over the bulge of your jugular and _Christ,_ it's the most intimate thing anyone's ever done to you. You're loose under Jack's hands, breath faint, and his voice is a novocaine kick to the senses. "You're such a little _psycho,_ you know that? It's cute. You, with your - your limp, and your bruises, and your fucked up face. It's like looking at a rabid kitten."

"Jack--"

"Ah-ah." You get a threatening scrape of teeth. " _What_ do we say?"

"Daddy."

You don't know what you're asking for. He seems to interpret it for you, rocking you down on his thigh, and you let out a little moan and lean further against him. This isn't something being demanded of you - this isn't a case where you have a goal in mind, directions to follow. You're adrift, and _Handsome Jack_ is your lifeline. You're raccoon-eyed and he's leaving fresh marks along the line of your jaw, lips skimming appreciatively over finger-shaped bruises he left there himself. You're still contending with the fact that you stranglemurdered a noncombatant over being kind of an asshole and Jack finds you sexier now than when you were in pants tighter than the Gordian knot, presenting yourself, begging for him.

"This is so fucked up," you murmur, and he snickers against your shoulder.

"Relax." Again, he grinds you down onto his leg. Again, you move with it. "Can't help the way you are, right? Fucked up. And sweetheart, you are _fucked up._ "

When he hooks his free hand around your nape and holds your head against his shoulder, the other hand guiding your hips, your bruises sing.

"But you know what? That's _okay,_ kid. Really is. I don't mind if you're a little screwy." In classic hentai fashion, your hips are moving on their own. Now that you've caught on, he can free up his arms to drape one across the armrest, sitting back while you rut against him like a particularly excitable dog. "You know why?"

He drags you back by your hair, knotting some of it in his ring.

"Because I can't figure out which idea I like better: that you killed that guy because you hate me, or because he insulted _you._ "

You don't know, and the realization is an unpleasant one. Sure, someone mocking you with a voice that sneers at you in your nightmares and practically narrates your thoughts by now was offensive, but he didn't realize it - sure, the guy was a jackass and the teasing went way too far, but you killed him, and now you realize that in that moment, when you stared into his watery eyes and strangled him, that emotion you felt was _vindication._ Someone pushed you, and for the first time, you pushed back.

"No," you say, fitting a hand between your chests to push away from Jack - you're not entirely sure what you're saying no to, but it doesn't matter either way, because he won't let you go. His hands are like iron on your hips, and when your struggling gets a little more lively, he snatches one of your wrists and twists it until you falter for him. "Jack, I need - to go."

"Go where? We're having such a _great_ time!" He drags his teeth across the tender inside of your wrist, follows it up with tongue. You can hardly stand to look at him with the way he's staring at you, _into_ you, his eyes unerringly on yours while he dips down to kiss a red line from elbow to shoulder. There's blood on his mouth when he tries to find yours, and you turn your head, earning an exasperated sigh. "Really killin' the mood here, kid."

"Look, I just - killed someone. Can I just go deal with this?"

" _I just killed someone! Wah wah bluh bluh fart._ Come on!" He mimes your voice in a nasally girly way, rolling his eyes at the end. "People die, Foster. Mostly when they screw up. That guy? Screwed up. If you'll stop getting all worked up over this crap, lemme tell you something: you were doing him a favor killing him instead of letting me do it."

"Jack, _please._ "

But he isn't budging. If anything, his grip gets tighter - one hand around your waist, and the other pinches your jaw, steering your head back by force.

"Look, babe - I get it! Really do. You're freaked out. It's actually kinda endearing." His grip grows bruising. Considering everything is already bruised, this is more than slightly uncomfortable. He speaks with flashes of perfect white teeth, his eyes half-hooded like he's being really casual about this, and has a look in his eye that says anything but. "But you know what else? I'm getting kinda sick of your attitude. Perk up, pumpkin. Daddy doesn't like the whole whimpery bitch routine."

You try to pull away, disguising it as a fall, but he catches you fairly easily - you find yourself maneuvered up and into his desk, head bouncing against the wood in a way that makes everything from the neck up ache in sympathy. He's behind you, of course, framing you with his weight.

"This is gonna go one of two ways, cookie - the easy way, where you stop being such a bitch, or the hard way, where I _proooobably_ end up killing you. Your choice." He tuts. "Jeez, you'd think I wanted to fuck you or something."

That gets your attention. "You don't?"

"Nah, you're kinda - I dunno? Beat the hell up?" He shrugs while pinning you, somehow. "Just wanted to give you something. Now that you aren't flapping your hands, can we get up and act like intelligent, civilized men?"

He stands up, expecting you to bolt, and you strongly consider it. A gift from Handsome Jack isn't really a gift at all, and he's so goddamn greedy he's probably not going to set you up with a turbomansion and a fortune. No, no. It's going to have strings. But can you really tell him no?

"Alright," you say, standing up. You go to turn. "What's the--"

He hisses, scaring you still. "No no no, it's a _surprise._ Close your eyes and open your hands. Now," he adds, when you hesitate. You hear him rustle in his desk drawer, which is... promising. Must be small.

_How bad could it possibly be?_

"Stand still," he says in your ear, and that's when the first red flags go up. But you listen. You hear him stroll around to your back, which ruins your running theory that it was a ring or a bracelet or something, but maybe it's a necklace. When you feel him plant a kiss on your nape, you're sure that must be it. Must be his way of marking territory besides bruises, lest the important people in this star system start thinking he's some kind of Pandoran brute.

It's a deceptively light little thing. You almost don't notice it until he's got it around your throat with a soft _click,_ but by the time you start to pull away, the damage is done. Worse, he lets you pull away from him, backing up against the glass while you try to work your fingers between the collar and your throat. If it clicked, it has a locking mechanism. If it has a locking mechanism, there's likely a reason why the wearer might want to take it off. It's tight, but not enough to constrict - you glance up just in time to see Jack playing with a remote control, tossing it back and forth between his hands.

"Take it off."

"Seriously? You just put it _on._ " His smirk is an awful thing. "Don't you want to know what it does first?"

"I don't give a shit what it does, Jack. I want you to--"

Well, you get the first half of that sentence out. The second fizzles out once the shock kicks in, sending you to the floor, and things get a little fuzzy from there - you just know that your chest hurts, and that Jack seems to be concerned, crouching down to look at you properly. He steps back, hitting the button, and your heart starts to beat again.

"Little strong, huh? I'll have the guys in R&D adjust the voltage. Anywho, up and at 'em, champ." He hauls you up into a sitting position by your arm, then heads back to lean against his desk. You're still hurting from the, you know, mass muscle contractions and all the bruised tissue it irritated. "Second button is - super fun, you're going to love this one."

The first press has your collar clicking, and an instant later, you feel something stab into the side of your neck. _Hypodermic needles,_ your brain helpfully supplies. You back up against the glass and bring up your hands like you want to hide, like none of this is happening, like _Handsome fucking Jack_ didn't just stick some weird, probably untested tech on you, and that there isn't a weirdly warm morphine kick at your carotid as the drugs set in. You don't pay attention to him as he moves - you don't look up when you hear footsteps. It takes his voice right in your ear to drag you out, making you look at him. Making you _look_ at him. He's crouched right in front of you, head tilted, arms folded across his knees to mirror you.

"You're never going to take it off, are you?"

"Well, we don't _know_ that," he replies, casually dangling hope right in front of your nose. "But personally? I like how it looks. Needs a little more flair though, some character, some... engravings of my face, actually, that would look, like, totally badass."

You bury your face. He ruffles your hair like he's your dad and not your _daddy,_ waiting for something.

"Why are you doing this to me?" you ask, not for the first time.

"Aw, princess. Don't sound so _disappointed_ about it." He's grinning. If you looked up, you know he would be grinning. "This is a good thing! This way, I'll always know where you are in case I need you. And it's - wait a sec."

He has to dig around for a bit, but he finally finds the little tag that reads _Baby_ in a pocket somewhere. You don't really bother fighting him when he clips it onto the collar, giving it a few test flicks.

"It's your key."

"To...?" For a fleeting moment, you let your curiosity overwhelm your fear. He looks at you like you're stupid.

"To the penthouse? I mean, you were basically on my dick trying to get into it, so... you're into it! Grats." He ruffles your hair again, then glances at the remote with a scowl. "How long is this shit supposed to take?"

"You're letting me in your penthouse _after_ almost killing me?"

"Well... yeah?" He shrugs. "I mean, kid, I fucked you _up._ Broke seven bones in your face, two in your chest, ruptured some organs, all that cool stuff. You didn't even _have_ a face. Most people would've lain down and died, but you didn't. You showed resilience! Determination! The ability to absorb a fuck-off load of damage before going down! I like that. I respect that." He thumbs under your chin, turning it up with a sexy purr. "I find that attractive."

For a guilty second, you let him play you into a kiss. He may be lying - is almost certainly lying about something, this is _Jack_ \- but after a week of constant pain and fear, you'll hold onto the slightest grasp of comfort. Whatever scraps he'll throw to you, like the arms that steer you up to your knees and drape you against him. While he flicks the collar with his thumb, you try to relax.

"Friggin' piece of crap collar. I throw a ton of money at them, was even nice enough not to murder any of 'em for a while, and what do they do? Give me something that _doesn't work._ "

Something about his fiddling seems to do the trick. This second rush of warmth is full-body, from the top of your head to the tip of your toes, and it feels - it doesn't necessarily feel good. If you really think about it, the low coil of heat in your gut isn't that pleasurable, and the rub of Jack's clothes doesn't feel super tactile but in a nice way, and you _definitely_ don't enjoy the fact that he smells ten times better now, a thousand times better, enough to have you burying your nose in his neck and working your hands under his clothes.

"Well, crap. That works." He tenses when you knock him on his ass, taking a handful of your hair to keep you from flattening him further. "Woah, cowboy."

But he's not trying to stop you - not really. Once he braces himself against the desk, he's more than happy to let you do your pawing, and you have never, never been this horny, not even when you were a teenager.

"You drugged me," you mumble, but the accusation is mostly lost when you're mumbling it against his jaw. "Son of a bitch."

"Ayup. Fun, right?" You're pulling at his layers, lapping at his pulse, and god, he _shivers._ Is it because you're all over him, or because you're all over him when you don't want to be? "Had the guys downstairs cook up something just for you, baby. God, you are so _spoiled!_ "

'Something new' probably means 'something untested,' which actually works in your favor, because his shitty snickering sets your single-mindedness in a new direction. God, you hate him. _God,_ you think, straddling him, _I hate you, I hate you, I fucking hate you._ You get the clarity to lean your hands on the desk to brace yourself, smiling down on him, and he's too up his own ass to even imagine that you might be grabbing one of his fountain pens.

That's pretty much the entire set-up to how you stab him. Because you do. You stab the shit out of him. His eyes go comically wide when you jam his pen into his gut - his reaction kicks in when you're stabbing him the second time, snatching your wrist, forcing you to swap hands when you try very, very hard to drive it right through his eye. (The green one.) He's fumbling for the remote but you're making it hard, even more so when you rock your weight down on his hips and remember how desperately needy you are.

You're still not expecting him to yank the pen aside and headbutt you. You're not expecting him to roll your weight and pull the pen away from you, and you're _really_ not expecting him to stab you right back, although you probably should. When the pen is unsatisfactory, he hold you down by the throat and tosses it aside, reaching to his belt with that mad, blood-crazed sneer. His eyes are manic bright. You can see nearly every pearly white tooth in his head.

Being stabbed with a _knife_ is kind of different than a pen. Kids stab with pens. Men stab with knives, beautiful laser-sharpened ones with Jack's initials carved into the handle, and breaking skin is like breaking water tension. There's no telling how many times he stabs, but it's enough for him to grit out _think you can screw with me you wannabe bandit shit_ between stabs. By the time he stands and runs his hand through his hair, sighing with a little wince as he heads over to his desk, you realize he's actually left the knife stuck in you. You hear the hiss of a healing hypo, and then he's crouching next to you with impassive eyes, a hypo gun in hand.

"Christ, kid. You really think any of this crap is going to work? You think I haven't prepared for any crazy shit you might try to pull?" The knife is sticking between your ribs on the right side, jarring with your wet breathing. He gives it a good hard tap. "I'm _smarter_ than you. I'm better than you. I'm always going to be smarter and better than you. I was doing this when your dad was still dealing with the broken condom."

He yanks the knife out without pomp, watching you curl in on yourself.

"Ah-ah, not done yet. If you want to die, Foster, now's a really good time to do it." You actually have to sit there and watch him finger one of the stab wounds. "Next time, I'm not gonna be so nice. Now, if you want to live, ask me."

"I want to--" Your voice is hoarse, wet. Multiple stab wounds will do that to you. "--live."

"I said _ask,_ kitten. You really don't listen much, do you?"

"Please don't let me die, Jack." His eyebrows go up. Then, while you're literally dying, he makes you say: "Please, daddy."

"There's my good boy." He hypos you on a scratch of clean neck, and the pain instantly starts to numb. You'll still need patching up down in medical, but you'll last long enough to get there. He hooks your weight up into his lap and presses your ear against his chest, making you listen to the slow, steady beat of his heart. Killing you didn't even give him a thrill. "I forgive you. If you ever try to kill me again, I'll melonball your goddamn eyes out."

Steadily, eyes shut, you nod. You should probably also be expecting the fact that he leans down and kisses you despite all the blood... everywhere, soaking into his clothes and dotting his cheek in spray pattern droplets. It's not long, nor is it particularly intense, but it is what it is. He's a goddamn nightmare when he heads to his desk and calls for a med team, and he doesn't bother looking at you again until they show up.

"Back here." He gestures with his head. "Make sure he doesn't die on the way down there, aight?"

They have a stretcher, at least. You stare at the ceiling until you hit the receptionist's desk and the rooms beyond, watching as some Maliwan suits approach and mention a meeting to the receptionist. They're all eyeballing you, knowing you came from Jack's office, and he'll still look like a goddamn monster when they walk in. Did he really arrange all of this? Could he have planned it?

 _Maybe,_ you think, closing your eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

"You tell your fucking cousin that she ruined my _life,_ " you tell Diego, voice a little low so you don't irritate your freshly-healed injuries.

You've been threatened, intimidated, stalked, beaten within an inch of your life, and now stabbed eight times in the chest and stomach, all within the past three months. Life is generally terrible, and the outlook is worse, and you're pretty pissed off about it. The only real pleasure you take is knowing that everybody rightfully feels bad for you, even people you don't know - you look terrible, you feel even worse, and they pity you. They do you little kindnesses. Someone buys your lunch, and someone else sends flowers. Miles frets. Safra comes up with reasons to explain why you look so fucked up, and eventually settles on _he just got out of a bad relationship._ Your mad tittering whenever she says it doesn't really hurt the illusion.

Finally, you corner Diego. You're wearing a high-necked shirt to obscure any video the tag might be taking, and when you stop him with a whiteboard and a pen, he understands almost immediately. _How is Helle?_ you scribble, and pass it over.

"She didn't ruin your _life,_ " he snaps back. _Really glad about the stabbing since he's paying attention to you again. Sorry._

"She did!" _Is the plan still on?_

"You can't blame everyone else because you got saddled up with some shithead." _Yeah. You sure you want to go through with it?_

"You're such a piece of shit." _Why not???_ You set the board out of sight and yank your shirt down, exposing the collar. "Look at this! _Some shithead_ put me in some kind of bullshit coercion collar. Thing. Okay? It _sucks._ "

"That's not my fault." He raises his hands defensively, tone growing angrier. "You did this to yourself, Foster."

"Fuck you, okay?" You give him a shove to add a little theatrical flair. He shoves you back, making you trip and land on your ass. " _Fuck_ you! I don't - I don't have to deal with this. I don't have to deal with this. Fuck you and fuck your cousin." You shove onto your feet, unsteady as you turn around and stomp away. He'll take care of everything, you imagine. Think. Hope.

All you really have left to do is wait. You sit in your little apartment and smoke cigarette after cigarette, naked, have nothing but cans of whipped cream for dinner, and basically do everything a person is supposed to quit doing after the age of seventeen. You're sleeping half the day away when the collar finally beeps at you, scaring you awake.

"Why don't you come on up here? Make it in five unless you want a little lovetap from that collar. Ciao."

You spend five whole minutes laying there naked, staring at the ceiling. It actually takes the shock to pull you out of your terrified daze, and then he's clucking his tongue, probably watching as you stumble around for clothes.

"Five more minutes, pumpkin. The next one is twice as strong."

___

You wear approximately four layers of clothing. When you meet him in his little lobby with thirty seconds to spare, he seems to think it's funny, looking you over as he slides an arm around your shoulders.

"Really? I mean - I dig fashion and all, I basically _am_ fashion, but you're doing it a little heavy, kiddo." You say nothing, your shoulders shrinking under his touch. He gives them a squeeze, then drops his arm to the small of your back, dragging rather than guiding you along. Once you're past the receptionist, he leans in. "Do you think an extra pair of undies is really going to stop me?"

You cringe and he snickers, dragging his tongue up your ear in an animal show of affection. Almost everything below the chin is covered.

"Now," he says, straightening, "there's, like, _maybe_ ten people who know about the place? We're keeping it that way, aren't we?" You nod. He ruffles your hair. "Good boy. Wanna see something totally cool?"

He leads you to the desk, clicking a switch on the underside, and then heads to one of the walls to lay his bare palm against a smooth, dark section that you can tell is out of place if you stare very, very intently. After a few seconds, you hear another click. Then he just... walks you through the wall, which apparently works as some sort of revolving door leading to a smaller, still ludicrously expensive-looking little hallway with an elevator at the end.

"You like that? Had it built after I took over, since I didn't want Tassiter's crappy little cat pee-smelling apartment. I wanted something that was _mine,_ you know? All mine." He gives you another affectionate, meaningful squeeze. "Plus, nobody's expecting the prez to have his place hidden _miles_ from his office. Even if they blow that up - which I kinda wish they would, I want to redecorate - I'm still sittin' pretty."

"That's - actually really clever," you say, and his grip drops to your hip. He purrs, ego soothed.

"Oh, baby, keep talkin'. You know I heard all that crap you said about me to the other peons? _Oh, Handsome Jack is soooo smart, and he's soooo handsome, and oh my gosh, he's so super strong, I'm so lucky to be alive! I just love Handsome Jack!!_ "

"I didn't say that last thing," you counter.

"You said, ahem - _Handsome Jack is an impressive man, a very powerful man, and Hyperion is lucky to have him leading it into the future._ So, basically, yeah you did." He half-guides, half-shoves you into the elevator. "Don't be _shy._ I think it's cute. It's like you're telling everybody about your secret boyfriend or something. What's next? Gonna slip a note into my locker?"

He's in an awfully good mood, giggling at his own jokes, and you relax by degrees. Never fully, of course, but if he's in a good mood - well, it's good. The elevator ride is a little long, and you have to transfer twice, but the helpful little in-elevator map shows that you've cleared what's essentially a two-day walk across the station in about fifteen minutes. Jack is still impatient, tapping his foot.

"Friggin' thing takes _forever._ Still tryin' to think of a way to make it faster without accidentally de-limbing everyone inside."

"It's still really impressive, sir."

He snorts. "Sir? You know what to call me, babe, and it ain't _sir._ " He reels you closer, ducking down to put his lips at your ear. "Then again, you could always call me _master._ "

You must be red, because he starts laughing genuinely, steadily backing you up against the elevator wall. The layers have done their job, at least, because he undoes the first two and starts getting frustrated at the last two and just hikes them up a little instead, turning his attention to your neck. You're expecting pain, blood, possible death, but all he leaves are lovebites that hurt at first, then soak in with a hot, pleasant ache. You falter beneath his mouth, hands falling to his hips entirely by accident. He takes it as encouragement and presses them into yours.

It's too much. He works a hand up under your shirts, mapping out the divots of scar tissue here and there, and his mouth and his hands are _too much,_ get you groaning and squirming.

The soft _ding_ of the elevator opening is what finally pulls him away, although he glances back at the doors like they're interrupting him, and he drags you by the forearm down another short hallway and to a reinforced set of double doors. He has to set his palm on a scanner, give a voice sample, and have his eye scanned to get the doors to open.

"Come on, your turn. Put your hand - right there." He taps something on a nearby keypad, and light flashes under your hand. He does the same to get your eye scanned. At the last sample, he whistles low. "Alllllright, password! Which one do you like: daddy, or master?"

You must look so crestfallen, because he snorts ugly laughter.

"Master." He takes you by the back of the head and steers you towards the microphone, and you say it again more clearly. "Master."

"That's a good boy. _Master._ I like it." He keeps you leaned forward. "Has that _gonna get your ass ridden like a pony_ je ne sais quoi, don't it? C'mere. Let's get that tag scanned."

 _Baby,_ the screen reads. You keep your expression placid.

"As long as this tag stays attached to that collar, you can just scan it. You ever detach that thing and you're gonna have to do it the old-fashioned way. Got all that?"

"Got it."

"Great." He scoops you up by the shoulders and leads you inside. "Swear you're gonna love this place. Totally worth those two near-death experiences, promise."

___

Well, you don't know about its worth, but the place is... really, really nice.

"Keep it in your pants, kid," he tells you as he passes by, seeing your wide-eyed stare. You thought Handsome Jack's house would look trashy as hell. Glitzy in a cheap I'm-overcompensating-for-something way. It kind of does with all the glittering guns on the walls, but it's also impressive as fuck - some of those guns are bigger than your arm. It's broken up with a weirdly large amount of cowboy stuff. Is he really into cowboys? The carpet is dark, probably to hide bloodstains, and plush beyond reason. You'd slip your shoes off and try it out if you weren't alone with the man that technically murdered you the other day. He's in the kitchen, apparently, and you take a seat on the couch nearby to be polite.

"Get comfortable. What do you like, champagne? Whisky? What's your poison, kid?"

"Do you know how to make cocktails?"

"Woah-hoh." You can see him turn to smirk at you. It isn't a smile or a grin or anything, it's an extremely punchable _smirk._ "Baby likes the fancy stuff, eh?"

"You don't have to--"

"Nah, it's fine. I'm just screwing with you." He comes over to the bar with a handful of bottles. From the living room, you can watch him through the open bar. "You really need to loosen up. You're gonna pop an artery if you stay so tense all the time. What do you take?"

"Pandoran Poison." He glances up at you with a _what the hell is that_ look. "Uh - Stomach Pump? Meat Bicycle? Hyperion Hard-On?"

"The hell is a Hyperion - nevermind." He shakes his head. You probably look desperate throwing out any drink you can think of, but you really - really don't want to irritate him by making him feel stupid.

"Bloody Mary?"

"Bloody Mary it is!" He sets at it with an enthusiasm that says he wants to forget all about five seconds ago, and you're more than willing to indulge him. You watch with a wince as he begins to mix what may be the sloppiest drink you've ever seen. "Do a lot of drinking, Foster?"

"Well - used to."

"I can tell, you big ol' lush." That is entirely too much worcestershire sauce. "What for? Because your family is crap?"

"Yeah, pretty much." You shrug, glancing down. "I don't sleep great either. Had to cut back when Hyperion took me on."

"Well _that_ is a crying goddamn shame if I ever heard one. Tassiter was such an asshole. Being under _my_ reign means you can get as blitzed as you want if you can still do your job. Here you go." You slide down the length of the couch and take the offered glass, looking into its murky depths. You sip immediately, of course, then turn, smile, and quietly toast your glass to him. He gives you a completely unnecessary thumbs up over his head. Yeah, he's _Handsome Jack,_ but the guy really tried to make you a drink, even if it was to show off. It doesn't matter that it's crap. He hooks around the corner with a full bottle of whisky, setting his feet in your lap and stretching out across the rest of the couch like some great, drunk cat.

"You have dried blood on your boots," you offer helpfully.

"Yeah. Probably yours." He lifts one, toeing at your chin. "Wanna lick 'em for me?"

For a minute, he's just an overgrown manchild and you're the straight man, slapping at his foot as he keeps trying to stick it in your mouth, balancing your cocktail haphazardly as you snort laughter and whine at him, _come on, stop it, I'm gonna spill this._ You finally swallow the entire glass and set it aside, both hands free to slap ineffectively at his leg. He's got a quarter of the bottle down when he gives up, nudging his toe under the edge of your dress shirt instead. His nudging reveals a fresh, pink scar the exact shape and width of a knife.

You quiet down. He takes another long draw off the bottle and turns on the TV. You shrug out of your shoes, then help him out of his. He seems more than fine with staying like that while he drinks, relegating you to a particularly lively footrest, but that's actually completely alright - it's more than alright. You sit there for a while sweating under your layers before he speaks up.

"You drink whisky?" You stare at him, uncomprehending, and he waves the bottle at you. " _Whisky._ Do you drink it."

"Not really. Tastes like shit."

"Nah, you're just drinking bad cheap-o alkie whisky. Here, try this."

You're expecting him to hand the bottle to you like a normal human being would. You're not expecting him to take another mouthful and set the bottle aside, fitting his lips over yours. It forces you to open up to swallow and he takes the opportunity to slip between your teeth, making the whole 'drinking' aspect of this really difficult. You've both got it down your chin by the time you break, and this doesn't feel bad, this feels _good,_ feels dangerous in a thrilling way. Like being tucked under the wing of a dragon.

It's good.

He looks surprised when you sit back sharply, snatching the bottle off the floor and taking another long, hard pull off it. It still tastes terrible, but it'll be easier to cope with what you're about to do later if you do it drunk. Another mouthful just for luck, and then you're leaning in, flattening him to the cushions with a kiss, slipping between his legs to press down against him like you know he wants you to. For a few moments, he's alright with lying prone and watching you do your thing and _want him,_ which must be a totally weird new sensation, considering you hate his fucking guts. At a glance, you see that he's got his eyes open, watching you.

It actually feels awesome to shed those first two top layers, which he helps with, leaving you in a dress shirt, tie, and waistcoat like a respectable young professional - the AC in space is obviously great, but four layers was still getting uncomfortable. When you toss them aside, Jack strikes, swapping your positions and grinding you into the _foundation,_ leaving more of those lovebites now that he has more skin to work with. You can bite down on a groan, but you can't hide it, hands clutching at his shirt.

" _There's_ my good boy." Fuck, that shouldn't be hot. Him purring it with half-lidded eyes shouldn't be hot, and the way he winds your tie around his fist and pulls you up by it shouldn't be either. "Who's my baby?"

"Fuck, Jack." You look away. "Fuck, I can't do the... the _talking._ "

Another grind of his hips. You jolt, gasping. " _Who's_ my baby?"

A whine. " _Jack--_ "

He bites you for real this time, right on the shoulder, and you're not proud of the way it twists in you like a knife. It's not negotiable, he's telling you; you're not getting out of saying it by being cute.

"I - I am."

"Who's my baby?" Soft again. He rumbles it in his chest.

"I am."

"That's right." You get a chaste kiss. "And who am I?"

"An extremely handsome man." You get another bite for that, but he's laughing through it, sliding a palm over your eyes.

"Adorable. Try again."

"Master."

"Also right. And who are you?"

"I'm your baby." Something about it seems so wrong, but the words come anyway, and you pull just a little tighter at him. "And you're my master."

You're not expecting him to work his hand down the front of your pants, under the boxers, to grab you. There's not a whole lot of room to move, but he can trace his thumb in circles in that one spot you really like, making your thighs tense.

"You learn fast, Foster. Y'know, you always had that going for you. Never wanted to take advantage, though. Hell, when I found you, you were doing paperwork down in _Shipping._ Shipping! That's where careers go to die, buttercup." He squeezes. You buck into his hand, gasping. "Didn't know you were also apparently some kind of death-repellant cyborg, but hey, who doesn't love a surprise."

You start stumbling to work your waistcoat open and get it _off,_ which he allows you. The tie goes too. The shirt, however, stays on - he just hikes it up over your face, rough fingertips tracing over the bruises, the scars.

"You know what? I once shot this guy, right? I mean, I was going to shoot him anyway, but he was giving me some wacko Pandoran sage advice or something, I dunno. Didn't really listen to most of it. But he said this one thing I remember: _things come with a match._ An artist needs a canvas." He brushes over a bruise, pressing down. "A fisherman needs an ocean. A psycho midget needs somebody to use as a human pinata. Everything's got something that completes it. Makes it better. For me, it's ...Nisha. For Nisha, it's bringin' down the law. For Vault Hunters, it's the small, tasty bones of children. And for you?"

He drags his nails down your chest and stomach and pumps his wrist at the same time, and fuck, you _moan._ He sounds so goddamn self-satisfied.

"It's me." He leans down, smoothing the fabric over your covered face, and presses his lips to yours. Your grip on his clothes gets tighter. By the time he tugs your shirt back down, you're hard and he's grinning, this awful smug look that makes you want to roundhouse kick him directly in the teeth. "So what are we doing here, babe? ECHOflix and chill? Or, y'know, we could just get to know each other."

 _Nope._ That stuff gets you stabbed.

"You should - show me the bedroom," you stumble out, the picture of smoothness. It works, though. He laughs at you, but he hauls you up and scoops up the whisky, heading off to the other side of the penthouse.

"Sure. C'mere."


	9. Chapter 9

"Lose the clothes," he tells you, and you gape at him. He raises his eyebrows, strolling to the other side of the bed. "Uh. Now?"

It seems more real now, when you have to pull your shirt over your head and let it flutter to his floor, steadily working out of your pants next. You get down to a completely respectable pair of purple-white briefs when he whistles, getting your attention.

"Not bad." His eyes roam shamelessly. You feel the need to cross your arms and cover up, glancing away. "Didn't get to look at you much when I was busy fucking you silly."

You try and look bold, standing in front of him. He gestures loosely to himself.

"Undress me." When you don't respond, he snaps his fingers in your face. " _Take my clothes off,_ genius."

You bite back an answer, slipping around to help him out of his stupid jacket thing. All of his clothes are stupid, when you really think about it. He must spend hours getting himself to look like he threw it all on in ten minutes - it took careful crafting to look like he gave a shit, but not much. That's all he really has to worry about, isn't it? The way he looks. You were busy _getting stabbed._ That's how you spent your weekend. Getting stabbed.

The last layer is a sweater, and he doesn't seem keen on helping you get him out of it. He'll lift his arms, sure, but you have to do all the stretching and pulling to get it off, nearly losing your balance more than once. When you finally get it over his head and off, he's grinning, mercifully silent as you work his zipper open. There's no way around kneeling down, so you try to get it done quickly, working them into a pool at his feet.

"Not bad, kid. For never getting any ass, you're pretty good at getting clothes off." Pants off. Socks too. Hyperion yellow underwear, and they're really... really form-fitting. You wait for a moment, expecting him to make some kind of blowjob joke or request/command, but he doesn't. He gestures for you to stand up, waiting to decide what to do with you, and his stare is a tactile thing - you bite your lip and he laughs hotly, stepping in.

He's such a good kisser. That's the unfair thing, that he doesn't just suck at all of this. He knows to lead in sweet and not let up, even when you try to get away, try to say his name - he smothers it out, sets a hand in the small of your back, bites your lip for trying, and just keeps merrily on. It's hot. It's messy. It's a little mean on both your ends, but increasingly yours, where you bite him a little more than necessary - when he snarls, sick of the game, you groan against his mouth. At some point, he must walk you back into the bed and push you onto it, but he's very _distracting_ when he does that thing with his tongue, the one you really like.

When he breaks off, he has to push you back down to keep you from chasing his mouth. When did _you_ become the aggressor here?

"Easy, sugar. You're gonna get yours." He's actually sitting on your dick right now, him in those stupid Hyperion underwear, and he seems aware. The way he rolls his hips is sinful. "Just need to look at something first."

When he touches the collar, you freeze. You've since learned that screwing with it is not only ineffective and painful, but dangerous; with how deep the needles are and how _permanent_ the collar seems to be intended, you'd need major surgery to get it off without bleeding out. Too much fiddling the other day resulted in a stab of pain, and then you panicked that entire evening, waiting to die. You've been gunshy ever since.

And now he's touching it, wiggling it without concern.

"Real nice piece of work, huh? What'd you call it? A _coercion_ collar? I like it. It's snappy."

"You don't need it to control me."

"Maybe I just like how goddamn pretty it looks on you, sweetheart." He gives it another flick, leaning back. "And it keeps you in line. Keeps you here. Quick Q, baby - why didn't you run?"

The question hits you like a truck. You gape at him for a moment, letting the words stumble out gracelessly.

"I thought you'd kill me."

" _Kill_ you? Pfffft." He rolls his eyes, rocking down again. You groan, hands dragging at his thighs. "Talk about a friggin' _ego._ I didn't care about you. Kinda have a company to run and all? Sure, I would've missed random blowjob inspections, but I've got thousands of sweet-faced little twinks like you wandering around this place."

He squeezes his thighs, bearing down. You have the biggest psychotic tyrant _ever_ right there, grinding on your dick, and he's not half bad at it. God. Try not to imagine Jack in some guy's lap, riding his dick and still totally, absolutely in control. _God._

"Until that day I beat the ever-living crap out of you. You just - kept going! I totally wrecked your shit, and you were just like _whatever_ about it. I don't know if you remember this or not, but your eyeball fell out. I mean, it was just danglin' there on your cheek. Really gross, bee-tee-dubs." He slaps you lightly on the cheek. "And then taking a stabbing and coming back for more - I mean, for not wanting this, you just keep getting my attention."

It makes sense. The logic is totally demented, but it makes sense. He leans in and fits your foreheads together, then focuses on your neck again, giving a few more of those hot, hard bites that twist you all up inside.

"And you have my attention." God, his voice. He's husky in your ear, voice a low rumble in his chest, and it should be illegal to use that tone on you. "Swear to god, kitten, you'll like it. You'll _love_ it. By the time I'm through with you, you'll think your name is Baby."

There's the click. There's the hot rush that spreads from your throat to everywhere, your eyes shutting, your body arching up into his until he steadily presses you down. God, he's hot, he's just burning to the touch, there's - something must be wrong with him, he must be sick, even if he pushes himself up and smiles down on you with easy confidence. He's too hot. It's too hot in here.

Things get a little hazy at the edges. He's kissing you again, although his eyes are open and cool and searching and you're the one with your arms around his neck, pleading with him to come down closer. He won't. He just watches, placing a hand in the center of your chest to pin you down while you steadily unravel.

"How's it feel?" he purrs.

You throw an arm over your eyes, trying to arrange the slam of sensation into words. The air is cooler than your skin, makes you prickle whenever you move - when you start to squirm, twisting onto your side, he just rolls you back. Touch is almost too much to handle. The sheets, already nice silk, lick at your back in a way that drives you crazy. He runs his nails down your chest, hissing. _How does it feel?_

It feels like drowning in boiling water. You're pretty sure you tell him this, babbling it out, but you can't be _completely_ sure. Whatever he's put into you is shutting down your higher functions, makes your eyes unfocused - like some kind of cave insect, you have to feel and hear your way around to know what's happening to you. Jack takes your pulse, leaning back to the edge of the bed - is that a _notepad?_ He's taking _notes?_

"What the fuck--" you slur, taking the opportunity to roll onto your belly, "--did you _do?_ "

"You like that? Had the guys downstairs work on that crap that made me stab you." This is someone else's fault, obviously. You hear the pen drop. "This is new and improved."

"I never went in to have it maintenanced," you scratch out, pushing yourself up on your elbows, but the question is stupid and you both know it. You can already imagine them flooding your room with gas and swapping shit out, you none the wiser.

"Don't you worry your pretty little head about it, pumpkin. Daddy takes care of everything." You'd probably be okayish if he didn't press you back into the mattress with his own weight, the skin-on-skin drag _everywhere_ fucking with the signals in your head - touch is exactly the same, but you're overwhelmingly aware of it. All of it. The sheets against your cheek and the press of his thighs, the way your underwear feels, the mouth that cuts a wet path from your upper back to your nape. You're trembling and all he did was lick you.

"Daaaaaamn. Kinda strong, huh?" On your back again, clutching him to you like a buoy at sea, and he lets you - he's busy with your neck anyway, experimenting. A kiss here. A suck-mark over there. A graze of teeth. When he _bites,_ you keen, pressing him tighter against you. It takes genuine effort for him to untangle himself from you, holding you down by the throat. "Tell me what it _feels like,_ precious."

"A l--lot."

"A lot?" He clucks his tongue, squeezing down harder. "Keep going."

"Touch is - a lot. Everything feels hot. I - Jack," and your voice falls to a humiliating whimper, "please fuck me."

He turns away for more notes, but you're starting to get your legs under you in this new state. He's not done when you press up against his back, wrapping around him. Your hands drag across his stomach and chest, drawing invisible patterns, and you kiss impatiently at his neck, behind his ear while he ignores you. You have the courage - the drug-related total lack of self-preservation - to bite him between shoulder and neck, feeling him jump with a low _fuck!_ and reach back, tearing you off of him by your hair. You find yourself pinned to the mattress by your throat, a gun in your face. Does he keep that on the night stand?

He's saying something. He looks pissed. Then he nudges your teeth with the gun and you let it slide between them, eyes on his, and he sighs. Pulls the gun away, sets it on the mattress where he can reach it if he needs to. _I was gonna get to you,_ he chides, but you're too far gone to care - he gets you down by the throat again, rips your underwear off, pops a couple fingers in his mouth, and steadily forces them into you. He's nice enough to lean down and spit again when things slow down, but fuck, it's painful. Definitely not the fucking you were expecting when you came up here. When he pulls out sharply and shoves back in just as hard, he probably expects you to scream.

Pain is bad. You avoid pain. Don't touch the burner, don't stick your hand in the circular saw, that kind of thing. No one ever warns you about being drugged with a highly experimental _science project_ and having your asshole boss fingerfuck you, or about how your incredible pain does _not_ give Jack the reaction he wants. You gasp, sure, feeling the pain soak in, but turn your wide, glassy eyes to the ceiling in wonder when it doesn't - well, it _hurts,_ but you can tolerate the hurt like it's nothing. It's just raw sensation. Put out, Jack tries again, scissoring his fingers. It hurts and you groan, but the tenor isn't right.

"What the _dick?_ " He glances down, glances back up. "Are you not feeling this?"

You're not listening, jerking off. When he leans low, low and sinks his teeth into your arm - definitely not an erogenous zone - and you _mmm_ your way through it, he pulls the notepad back one-handed and scribbles something new down. When he turns back, he gives your inner thigh a slap and watches them both jump apart.

"Spread 'em. If I'm doing this crap, I want to see."

It doesn't take too terribly long, between how rough Jack is being and how desperate you are to get off. Three fingers deep and going as hard as he can, Jack watches you come with a wail, wiping his hand on the sheets while you twitch and breathe and try to recover. Then he's at the end of the bed again, taking more notes. You let the haze settle in, waiting, but it's not coming. The rolling satisfaction and tiredness? That's not coming either. Your head is clearer, though, so you have the wherewithal to crawl over and shake his shoulder.

"Jiminy friggin' _Cricket,_ kid, what is it now?" He turns, looks at your face, looks down. You probably don't need to say anything.

"If I'm stuck like this forever, I'll be pissed," you say, eyes heavy-lidded, the heat creeping back into your face. "Please. Please get me through this."

"Go take a cold shower."

"It doesn't work like that," you snap, having no idea what way it _does_ work. You spread a hand over the tight knot down in your gut, fingers digging in. "I just - hurt. _Ache._ Jack--"

The way you whimper it is a calculated move. It keeps his attention long enough for him to watch you fuck yourself on your fingers, holding his eyes, saying his name. You pressing your cheek against his shoulder and moaning is the coup de grace, because _fuck_ if he can ignore someone weak to pounce on _on top_ of desperately wanting him. You're on your back in an instant, and the look in his eyes isn't safe.

"You need me, huh?"

"Yes."

"Can't live without it?"

You nod your head tightly.

"Well..." He gives an extended pause here, pretending to consider it. "I'm a busy guy and all, but I can move some stuff around for you. But _why_ should I?"

You didn't prepare for that one. After a few moments of opening and closing your mouth, he presses a finger to your lips and shushes you.

"You're not the only sweet-faced thing prancing around Helios, kid. Sure, you're a rubber ball and they're paper airplanes - you get that metaphor? Yeah, you got it - but I can always find someone else. There's thousands of Fosters out there."

You start to talk. Again, more forcefully this time, he shushes you.

"Shut up. I have an idea. You get what you want, I get what I want, everybody goes home happy. I'd consider that day a goddamn success, wouldn't you?" He chuckles, leaning down to put you temple-to-temple. "Thing is, not everybody can give me what I want. There's a trunk in the closet. Go check it out, you little scamp."

He slaps your ass as you head off in that direction, and you can _feel_ his stare as you pull said trunk out and work the latches. What's inside is dark - you have to dig around and pull pieces out to figure out what it is. When you do, you're not sure how you feel - there's that usual _Handsome Jack is ruining my life_ sadness, but there's also frustration, and need, and just the littlest spark of curiosity. It's what has you turning, dangling the whip by its handle.

"What's this called?"

"That's the Cat. _Proooobably_ not good for baby's first BDSM session." Oh, he is _delighted._ When you pull out the paddle that has his name as a cutout, your eyebrows rising, he gives you a succinct _whatcha gonna do_ shrug. There's a ton of shit in here, and you don't know what half of it is supposed to do. And Handsome "homicide" Jack wants to use them on you. Suddenly, you're very aware that this is a major turning point in your life, one of those great decisions that shape everything that comes after. Sure, you could leave. You could diddle yourself through it, assuming it actually wears off - otherwise you'll die when you strangle the guys down at R &D. You could go find someone else. You could.

But you look back and he's tossing his underwear aside, stroking himself as he watches you struggle with the decision, and... fuck, he's just so _handsome._ And has great pecs. You could eat cake off those pecs. Focus - you're tempted to say no just because he thinks you'll say yes. But the heat is coming back, gnawing at you, and maybe you've always been just a little too curious for your own good.

"Alright," you say, and he grins. When he crooks his finger for you and you stand up, he interrupts you. "Ah-ah, on the floor. Hands and knees. Walking is for people."

Ughhhhh _hhhhhhhh._ You crawl to him, settling between his knees so he can take your face in his hands, steering it up.

"You and me, kid - we're gonna have a hell of a time together."

"Should we--" You glance up through your lashes. "Shouldn't we have a safe word?"

"Nah. Safe words are for pussies." His smile is a mean, mean thing. "You trust me, right?"

"Right," you say, stomach churning with something other than dumb arousal. "Right."


	10. Chapter 10

"Look," he says, something he wouldn't tell you about in hand, "we're starting easy. _Already._ There ain't an easier spot to start at, kiddo."

"Are you sure?" you say, blindfolded, chained to the end of the bed by your wrists, wearing a spreader bar at your ankles. "Because this seems excessive for a whipping."

"Nah, you'll be fine." That wasn't what you asked. "Let's gooooo... ten. Count 'em out loud for me, sweetheart."

You're in the middle of answering when he hits you with what is _definitely not a whip,_ and your words dissolve into a scream. Holy shit, holy _shit,_ what is that? You can't see and no amount of squirming gets you loose, but at least you know he won't strike again until you count.

Only, he does. Two more times, both harder than the first. When he finally does stop to talk, he's half-chiding, half-mocking.

"I thought we were gonna _count,_ princess. Momma at least got to the one through tens, right?"

You slur something that sounds kind of like _three._

"Do we need to _start over?_ "

" _Three._ "

"There we go." He's stopped. Why did he stop? He roams closer, fingertips skating all over, stroking faux-fondly at your cheek. "Not so bad, right? Could _totally_ be worse. Like, you should see some of the shit I have in the other bag, jeez."

_Not helping._

"What did you hit me with?"

"Oh, this?" He whacks it in his palm. You jump. "Cane. Some kind of badass fiber from Pandora. Pretty sure you could literally beat someone to death with this thing, it's that sturdy. Right-o, back to work. Count this time."

"No, wait--" you start, but it's all you manage. Another three blows, one by one, and the hacking and mumbling don't seem to satisfy him. You snap back when he presses against you, chin on your shoulder, cock grinding idly against the curve of your ass. The cane comes around to press against your throat, squeezing down on your windpipe.

"For wanting me to help you, you're not being very _cooperative._ Change your mind, kitten?" His teeth pull at the shell of your ear, making you shudder. "Could always shove this thing up your ass instead. What number are we at?"

"Six." Your voice trembles. "We're at six, sir."

" _Master._ " Jack pulls away, the cane whistling by your ear. "Real close, kid. You make it to ten and I'll fuck you silly."

You've noticed a pattern - three blows, then a minute or so of rest, letting the white hot crackle in your back settle into a dull, deep ache that even the drugs can't touch. Endorphins? He's making sure you _feel_ every swat. Seven, eight, and nine bring you to the point of nausea, but you hold on, so close. _So close._ You even handle his hand on your back with some amount of dignity, feeling it drag up and down to irritate the wounds.

"There. That wasn't so bad, right?"

"One more," you breathe.

"That's right." Jack steps back. "One more. You ready?"

As soon as you nod, you feel the last crack of the cane - across your ass. You'd like to say you grunt or groan in manly fashion, or anything like that, but you squeak. Finally, you can relax.

"And one more for good luck."

 _Whack._ The back of your thighs. You finally snap and sob, hanging loose in your bonds, and finally hear him toss the cane aside. He works on the spreader first, then has to struggle to support you while he unclips your wrists. _Jeez, kid. Lose some friggin' weight._ The sheets are heavenly when you spread belly-first onto them, and you drag your cheek back and forth, sighing. It isn't long before you feel his weight settle on top, dripping something down your ass.

"Up and at 'em, tiger." Two fingers, then a third immediately after. Pressing in deep, then pulling out, you're sure he's focusing on himself now, lining up. "Nobody likes a pillow queen."

He's steady and unforgiving on the push in, and you drop your head and hike your hips, groaning in discomfort. Great, the drug's started to wear off. You can get this over with and get the hell out. Maybe Jack knows that, since the first couple thrusts get you squeaking in pain, not pleasure. Bad pain. Whole body _I am going to be so sore tomorrow_ pain. He pauses, pulls out, and you lift your head just in time to hear the _click_ of your collar. Heat floods your bloodstream.

"You son of a bitch," you say, and feel him seat himself again in one solid snap of his hips. "Fuck--"

"Language," Jack tuts, shoving your face in the sheets, but he sounds decently amused, so he doesn't snap your neck and ride your corpse or anything. You don't get any options here - he lays on top of you, keeping you caged in while the collar works its magic, grinding against you and biting impatiently at your shoulders. At least you know now that it wears off - it's cold comfort, but when your thoughts start to get hazy, the rational part of you clings to _not forever._ It won't last forever.

He waits until you rock back into him to act, chuckling as he denies you.

"Jack--"

"Shhh. Don't talk." His chest and stomach grind against the fresh cane marks, but again, the contact feels - not nice, not awful, just _feels._ You're intimately aware of the skin-on-skin drag as he sets a chin on your shoulder, giving a grind that makes you bite your fist. "This is all about you, buttercup. You did what I want--"

The first real snap of his hips. It chokes a sharp cry out of you.

"--so now I'm gonna do what you want and fuck you like you paid me."

A sober you would point out that he's getting what he wants _anyway,_ he's not really doing you a favor here, but then he curls his fingers around your shoulder and braces you - non-sober you is chanting Jack's name, hands fisted in the sheets, and _wow holy shit_ this stuff really works. The pace is lazy, almost purely observational at this point. It's slow and steady and _sears_ up your spine, and you've been waiting so long, and your cock rubs against the sheets just right--

It hits hard. You knot your hands in the sheets and smother a stuttering moan, feeling him stop behind you.

" _Wow,_ did you just come?" Jack is snickering behind you. For your part, you're pretty stunned. He moves to pull out. "Cripes, kid, I just put it in! I mean, it's flattering and all, but--"

" _Don't,_ " you bark, dragging your nails into his wrist. "Don't stop. Don't stop."

He pauses. You're afraid until he rubs a hand down your back, pressing in deep.

"Ask for it." _Ah ah,_ interrupting you before you can reply. "Ask _nicely._ "

"Please fuck me _master,_ " and even if you growl the last word, he lets out a held breath and starts moving again. Sure, you've been together before, but he's never paid you so much attention - you might as well have been a warm, life-sized gym sock to him until now. Now he's not only paying you his full attention, but _rewarding_ you, finding your sweet spots and paying them close attention as well. That spot just under your ear. The insides of your thighs. The nape of your neck. He presses his tongue over your carotid and reaches around to jerk you off, and then you're done.

The noise you make when you come has him growling, biting into your nape. He doesn't slow down.

"You are just - _too much,_ kiddo, you really are." He pulls out, flips you over, and shoves back in. The angle is fresh and your back hurts and you're _still hard,_ and he's on top of you, and - fuck. _Fuck._ Handsome "definition of insane" Jack, Handsome "fed a guy his own liver once" Jack, Handsome "super great pecs" Jack is leaned over you, an arm set beside your head to steady himself, and he looks wrecked. He's got a sheen of sweat to him, his perfect hair an absolute disaster, panting, his eyes heavily-lidded - when he glances up at you, you pretend you were looking somewhere else. He grins like an animal, head ducking low.

"See somethin' you like?" Even fucked out like you are, you turn your head away deferentially. His voice is low and husky, almost a growl, and you get to take him in again when he stops and steers your chin back. "Look at me."

It's impossible to sit still. You meet his eyes briefly before sighing, trying to reel him back in. You get redirected again, this time more firmly. He sits up like he's going to pull out whether or not you squeeze your legs around him like that, although the way you tense makes him groan.

"I don't like repeating myself, cupcake."

"I'm listening," you manage, looking at his face - not his eyes, but his general face area. "Master, I'm listening."

Caught the motherfucker. You can actually _feel_ him twitch inside you, and he's a little more amenable to the pulling now, letting you drag him in to kiss. _Please,_ but you don't have to say it out loud when you bite his lip and feel him bite back ten times harder, making you pull back, and then you do it again. _Don't go,_ but it comes across clearly enough when you kiss at the bottom clasp of his mask, then lower, making your way across his throat until you bite him high on the neck, sucking a dark mark there. (Let people see _that._ ) You taste the growl before you hear it, and you hear the growl before he rips you off, pinning you to the mattress.

His eyes are wild. Murder wild. Is that just for murder, or does he do that during sex too?

"Tell me something I want to hear." He tips his head, hair falling in his eyes, and you know this is a test. Failure is... not something to think about. "Now."

"We should do this again sometime," you throw out nonchalantly, and it's good enough for him. The pace kicks back into gear, and now it's harder, _determined,_ and he adjusts your hips until he finds the angle that actually makes you yell aloud and _sticks to it._ You throw an arm over your eyes and he rips it away, getting his hold back on your throat.

"You keep doing that and I'm going to chain it up," he tells you, and you're interested. "Or just rip it off," he adds, and your interest diminishes. Every roll of his hips - and they do roll, he keeps the pace high and hard - curls your toes, has you shouting his name like a benediction, and when you reach down for your cock, he tears that hand away too.

"Nuh-uh, not this time." Now he sounds downright _ragged._ "You come on my dick or you don't get to come at _all._ "

You can tell when Jack is close - not just because he throws away finesse in favor of mindless, dirty rutting, but because he locks both hands around your throat and squeezes off your air supply, ignoring the panicked way you claw at his wrists. This is tighter than he's ever held you before. If you survive it, the bruises and broken blood vessels in your eyes are going to last for weeks. You could die. Being that he's distracted, wouldn't notice you were legitimately strangling until it was too late, you could really die.

Breathplay's never really been your thing, but when Jack loosens his grip, you can see the advantages. Air has never tasted so good, and you have never, never cherished the ability to take a breath more. It's an extra kick of adrenaline too, like a little high - enough to drag you into an orgasm that hits you like a head injury and seems to last forever. You drift back just in time to watch Jack come, teeth bared, Christ, it looks like it _hurts_ \- he hauls you up into his lap and sinks his teeth in your shoulder, clutching you to him as he rides it out with short, jerky little stabs of his hips. You adjust your grip on him and come away with blood. It isn't much, but he's bleeding.

When he's done, Jack immediately goes boneless, shoving you out of his lap and flopping down onto the mattress. He very clearly claims the half of the bed that doesn't have come on it, and you're too tired to argue - you're both out of breath, actually, and still dumb with afterglow. You, you're still hard, but it's not as pressing as it was earlier, and anyway, you're too exhausted to go on.

"So," you eventually say, your voice wrecked, "this makes us even?"

Jack muffles something into the covers. You wait until he sighs, lifts his head, and flops onto his side.

"Yeah, we're good." He rolls over, picking something off the end table. It's a cigar and a lighter, you notice. "Strike that - we're _even._ Here. Got a little surprise for ya."

You're not expecting him to toss you the controls for your collar. Once you recognize it for what it is, you glance up at him, wide-eyed and uncomprehending. Apparently dumb-looking, too. He snorts, lighting up.

"Why would you give me this?" You're suspicious. He seems pleased. "What's your game?"

"Oh, don't worry, I've still got a remote for it. Can't just hand off _all_ the control, right?" He blows a smoke ring. What an asshole. "Just thought you should have one too. And, uh, don't touch that yellow one - you'd have to stick a pen or something to get down there, but that'll kill you. Blow your head right off."

You must be gaping. He scoffs, enjoying his cigar.

"Okay, how would I _not_ put a head-blowing-up button on there? It's friggin' _perfect._ "

"Why would I even need this? Let's see, we have - shock collar button, porno button, and blow-up-your-head button. Great selection."

When he raises his eyebrows at you, affronted, you fall quiet.

"Listen, you little shit, you're lucky I _bothered_ having a control made for you. Maybe I just figured that you'd like to have it around in case we add any other functions later on, but _noooo--_ "

"Your back is bleeding," you interrupt him with, breaking his tirade. He glances back, then walks to a floor-to-ceiling mirror on the wall to check it out. "And I'm sorry. Thank you."

"Jesus, kid. Sure your mom wasn't a cougar?"

"Definitely a cougar," you sigh, picking up your sad little shirt, "just not the kind you're thinking of. Listen, I really--"

He snatches the shirt from you, tossing it across the room.

"-- _really_ enjoyed your time here and want to stay for the night, I know." He grins around his cigar. You feel beside the bed and pick up the rest of the whisky, starting in on it. "Listen, kid - you _really_ want to explain to people what you were doing, wandering around well-fucked and drugged out of your head at, like, three in the morning?"

"That's a good point."

"I'm full of 'em." You're not expecting him to stand, heading for the door. "Night."

"Isn't this your bedroom?"

"This--" He turns, snorting laughter. "You think my bedroom would look like _this?_ Oh my god, you are just... adorable. You know that? 'Cos you are."

He waggles his fingers in a significantly more condescending way, if that's even possible, and leaves. It's not a bad bedroom or anything - maybe it's just a rich person thing. Maybe you, having the eyes of _the poors,_ can't tell apples from oranges when it comes to unnecessarily expensive shit. Shit, though, you're kind of relieved he left. Fucking Handsome Jack is one thing, but spooning delicately through the night?

You snort, dragging the sheets back and flopping onto your side. After a moment of thought, you drag the whisky into bed too.


	11. Chapter 11

Staying was a good decision. The next morning, you feel like _shit._

It's strange, though. You didn't drink enough to even touch tipsiness, but you've got the worst hangover - you actually _have_ to stay in bed for the better part of the day, stumbling out only to get water from the kitchen. You feel a little like someone's punched every square inch of your body, and not just because Jack might as well have when he started swinging that cane around. Everything is sore, muscle sore, bone sore.

"Yeah, that happens sometimes," Jack tells you, sipping his pre-coffee coffee while you lay your forehead against his table. "It's called - drop? I think? Whatever. It goes away." He drops down to kiss your forehead faux-sweetly. You have to lift your head just for this. "You just stay here as _loooong_ as you need, cookie. Daddy has to work."

But not before you blow him. ("Send me off with some good vibes, babe.") Then you go back to bed.

You get a call over your ECHO later in the afternoon. And then another. And another. You ignore all of them before one last ring snaps your nerves, has you sitting up and snapping at the caller. " _What?_ "

"Jesus - you're still alive." Safra looks at you, wide-eyed, then yells to someone. "He's still alive!"

"Where the _hell_ have you been?" Miles. He crowds into the frame. You show them both the extravagant bedroom, letting them get the _oohs_ and _ahhs_ out before you turn it back on yourself. "No wonder we couldn't find you. He's got you locked up in his secret porno bunker."

"What did he do to you?"

"You look like shit, buddy."

"Come on, you can't say that when he--"

You cough, drawing their attention. You're in your underwear when you walk to the standing mirror, turning around and flashing the ECHO over your shoulder.

"Holy _shit._ "

"What the hell did he hit you with? A chain?"

"A cane," you say, heading back to bed. You wince every time you lay on your back. "So, yeah, gonna try and take it easy today."

"But you're not staying there, right?"

You start to say _no,_ but you think of Helle and the chip you nervously sewed into your third layer earlier, feeling like some kind of corporate spy. (If he caught you, would he treat you like one? Read: _horribly?_ ) If you leave right away, he's going to go looking to see if you've touched anything - if you go, you might never get another chance. If you stay, the worst possible outcome is that you die, which is something you seem to contend with literally every single day of your life lately. You glance up at the ceiling. You _sigh._

"I have to. Diego - just talk to him, alright?"

" _What?_ "

"Just _talk to him._ I have to go. Bye."

You feel bad for cutting them off so succinctly, but it's better that they know as little as possible. They're not as useful to Jack that way. In time, you drag yourself out of bed and to the couch, bringing a sheet and a pillow with you to camp out and watch TV. You just barely resist the urge to drink.

___

You wake up to him on top of you, his knee up on the cushions to settle his weight half onto yours, jacket thrown over his shoulder. He looks infinitely pleased.

"Still here, huh?"

"Hope you don't mind," you reply, closing your eyes again.

"Nah. Usually just come here to sleep." He steps off, tossing his jacket and shedding one of his shirts. You watch him loop into the kitchen and pull a bottle of champagne from the fridge.

"Do you ever _eat?_ "

"Had my DNA altered. Now I live on tits and liquor. Like a plant." He turns around, sees you staring dumbly, and rolls his eyes. "I eat in my office, genius."

He's not afraid to sit on you, and even when you try to get out from under him, he doesn't seem too keen on moving. You end up with him sitting on your knees, legs crossed, turning on some shitty Pandora nature program. It's roughly ten minutes of legitimate nature-watching footage and then another forty-five of screaming, mauling, and gore. You hate to admit it, but THE PANDORAN INFERNO is actually pretty interesting, and you're just as enraptured as Jack is - when he passes the champagne, you don't glance over before you take it and knock back a mouthful.

"You've been down there, right?"

"Yup." You finally wriggle out from under him. He doesn't glance over as he speaks. "Butthole of the galaxy, right there. You know I left my turbolimo for like, five seconds? When I got back, the whole thing - _stuffed_ with midget bandits. They all came jumping out at once, too. Like a friggin' clown car."

On the one hand, he's a terrifying, psychopathic tyrant. On the other, he makes shitty Bloody Marys and says _butthole._ He's a merciless killer, but he also kicks his boots off like a little kid and drapes himself across the couch, head in your lap. You have no fucking clue what to do with him. Experimentally, you pet his hair. He shoots you a _look,_ like a try-anything-and-I-will-eat-your-tongue kind of look, but permits the touch.

For a while, anyway.

"Yeah, that's cute and all, but _come on,_ kid." He sits up and grabs you by the wrist, re-positioning himself on the couch to drag you into his lap instead. Like this, he can trace the line of your jaw, sweeping his thumb over your lip in surprisingly gentle moves; like this, he can detect the faint flutter of your pulse as it speeds up. You must look like a deer in the headlights, because he laughs, smothering the beginning of your question with a palm over your mouth. "Save it. Just sit there and look pretty for me, 'kay?"

'Kay. He puts his feet up on the glass coffee table and cracks his neck, and you try not to be ridiculously tense as his hands roam. You shouldn't still be gunshy - he's already seen everything, touched even more, but it's hard to relax when you see him drop his gun on the table and push it out of your reach with his foot. Or when he drags his fingers down the pretty line of your throat. Or the knowledge that he probably knows about a thousand other methods to make you die, at least two hundred of them without having to leave the couch. His voice snaps through your thoughts.

"You done down there?"

"Done?" You lift your head, eyebrows pinching. "With what?"

"Done crapping your pants." He pushes you back down, hand covering your eyes. Like he's trying to calm down a horse. "Look, I'm not gonna kill you unless you give me a _reason,_ you get that? You picking up what I'm putting down, kiddo?"

"Yes." You try to sound sure. Your voice absolutely does not sound sure. "Just... for reference, what would count as reason to kill me?"

"Oh, man... pretty much anything? Talking back. Not doing whatever the hell I tell you to. Bad singing. Assassination attempts. Clashing patterns. Anything a Claptrap would do. You know, important stuff."

"Oh." You lay your head back down on his thigh, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. "That... makes sense."

"Don't it just?" Now the hand is over your mouth. "Shhh. Guess you're gonna spend another night, huh? Shit, kid, I don't blame you. Luxury is a hell of a thing."

"And my clothes are in your wash," you add.

"Next time, just borrow some of mine. Bottom drawer." The less nice clothes, probably.

"Do you really want people to see me in your clothes?" you ask, disarmingly nonchalant, but he catches you - takes you by the chin and gently turns your head until you not-so-gently have to lay on your back and look up at him. Like this, Jack looms; like this, he seems larger than life, some unstoppable, unimaginably dangerous creature with a clean sharp smile and his hand on your throat.

"You're not _ashamed,_ are you?" Fuck, you can't read his tone. He squeezes your cheeks, purses your lips. "Because if you are, precious, we can work something else out."

"I'm just concerned about my safety." It's a defense he wasn't expecting. Your delivery is cool, your eyes briefly meeting before you turn on your side again, getting comfortable. Your cheek presses against his thigh, a solid warm weight he can't ignore, and his hand slides to grip loosely at the back of your neck. " _Hi, there are multiple documented instances of contact between Handsome Jack and myself, and I have no on-paper employment despite my staying at Helios, and I'm also wearing his clothes - which are very obviously his clothes because they have his initials everywhere - but we're just friends, really!_ "

"Look at you, getting all cute and _mouthy._ " But he sounds pleasant enough, petting through your hair. "Don't get your pen protector all out of whack, Foster. I'm already on it. Nobody's gonna kill you or any of your little friends. Not over _me,_ at least."

You must send him a _look,_ because he snorts and casually shoves you out of his lap and to the floor, stepping over you as he heads down the hall. You've hardly crawled back onto the couch before he whistles for you - and you know it's for you, mostly because you ignore him and he whistles _again,_ adding on:

"Here, boy!" Snap snap. "Baby!"

"Yes?" You don't want to keep him waiting too long, of course. "I'm - I'm coming, sir."

You head down into the bedroom - the guest bedroom, apparently - and just past the doorway, Jack gives you a solid kick to the back of the knees, sending you to the floor. You lift your head, twisting around to give him a disarmed look, but he's already kneeling down to take you by the hair. He steers your head down, sets you on hands and knees before trailing his palm down your spine.

"How many times do we have to go through this, princess?" More petting, this time down your flank. You shouldn't still feel exposed, he's seen and touched and tasted _everything,_ but the way he lingers near the inside of your thigh just - pierces right through any armor you might have built up to him. You suppose that's the point. "You don't call me _sir._ You don't call me _Jack._ "

"I'm sorry."

"I know you are." He takes you under the chin and steers your head up, but not to look at him. You get to stare at the wall while he hangs just in your peripheral, down on one knee as he plays with the collar. Touches it. Feels it. Pulls you up by it, just a little, just enough for you to feel it tug at something in your neck. "But it's not the first time you've screwed up, so we're gonna go ahead and fix that. _Master._ "

"Master."

"What do we say from now on?"

" _Master._ "

"Good boy." He stands, and you go to stand with him - he clicks his tongue at you sharply, sending you back to hands and knees. "You just stay right there, sweetheart. Don't move until I tell you to."

You nod, feeling him drift away. Something rustles. He pulls something open, maybe a drawer - lingers there, apparently gathering things up. You don't recognize what he attaches to your collar until he gives it a yank, dragging you forward until you have to catch yourself on the side of the bed. He clicks his tongue again, giving another hard yank at the leash.

" _Ah-ah._ No dogs on the furniture." A further yank, this one pulling you closer to the center of the room. "Jeez. Anybody ever teach you manners, kid?"

When Jack strolls in front of you, you're not sure what to expect. When he gestures for you to sit up and produces a headband with dog ears attached, you're not sure _what_ you expected, but it wasn't this. Probably should've been this. Wasn't this. He slides them into place and you say nothing, hands tightening into fists against the carpet. Your concentration breaks when he snaps his fingers, and as you look up sharply, you feel the ears prick up with interest.

"Good. They work." He ruffles your hair. "What the hell kind of dog doesn't have ears, am I right? Don't ask me how they work. Brain waves or some crap."

You keep your expression smooth, but the ears go flat anyway. So _that's_ what they - Christ. When he laughs, they go flatter.

"Aw. You pissed, kitten?" He gives you a mean little shake by your jaw. "I'd feel bad and all, but you're just so damn _cute_ when you're mad. Give daddy a kiss."

"Sir, I should really - I should be getting downstairs--"

He lets go. The shock comes immediately after, but your yelp of pain twists off in your throat - when things fade back in, he's leaning over you looking so terribly disappointed, spinning the collar controls around his finger.

" _Downstairs?_ It's only just getting good, baby. Now - let's try that again." He yanks you up by your arm and taps at his lips. "Give daddy a _kiss._ "

Ears back, your expression so open, so honest about your dislike for him, you lean up and kiss him chastely. He smiles against your lips, then against your cheek when you turn your head, wrapping the leash around his wrist and pulling you against him. You're surprised he's willing to get on his knees to get on your level, but otherwise he'd have a hard time seeing the resentment in your eyes, wouldn't he?

And you wouldn't be able to see him pull the knife.

"Sit still, kid. Wouldn't want my hand to slip." When you try to pull away, he takes you by the back of the neck and pins you, shoving a knee in your back - the knife chews a shallow line in your shoulder, and he shifts his weight to flatten your chest against the floor, turning your scream into a breathless gasp. "You just - you _really_ don't like to listen, huh?"

"Jack, don't - _please--_ " Your voice sounds so pitiful. If it's from fear or just the plain lack of air, you're not sure. "Don't do this, don't - what are you _doing?_ "

"Calm your tits, babe. I'm not gonna hurt ya." _More,_ that's what goes unsaid, followed by _unless you make me._ You feel your underwear being pulled up, then slackening as he cuts them off of you. Jack makes sure you can see the ruins, which he tosses into your line of sight. " _Don't do this, don't do this!_ Jeez, you'd think I was _killing_ you. Friggin' drama queen. Now spread 'em."

You do as you're told, if only because he's got that knife and he's made it quite clear he isn't afraid to use it on you. There's a thin hot line down your shoulder, and you only feel it more keenly when he dips his head, licking at it. _Jesus._

"You're so _tense._ Need a little somethin'-somethin' to get you in the mood, kitten?" He tosses the controls within your reach. "You know what to do."

He won't kill you unless you give him reason. He won't hurt you unless - well, unless he feels like it, but you're reasonably sure he wants you healthy and hale for exotic, kinky sex. You grab the controls and hide them in your fist, keeping them away from him, but he's busy with something else. A popping cap. Two - _three_ fingers shoving into you, just like that, slick and warm, but they're gone just as quickly.

"You make a pretty picture, kid. But there's just... something _missing,_ you know?" Jack chuckles, fingers brushing your thigh, and he slides closer, his breath on your nape. "Think I know what it is."

You don't get any real warning, and the plug isn't exactly small. It drives you forward with a hiss, and then you're fighting his grip to turn around, feeling something tickle your leg.

"You wouldn't be much of a dog without a tail, right?"

It's fluffy, at least. Good quality. You turn away with a hot flush painting the bridge of your nose, folding your arms in front of you, burying your face in them as you compose yourself. He doesn't give you the opportunity. He trades the leash for a grip on your hair instead, dragging you up to get a look at your heated face. He looks so goddamn _satisfied,_ too, flashing a smile that should be warm, but isn't. Sure, his mouth knows the moves - the eyes, though. His eyes are a different story.

"Adorable. Sit still, Spot. Nish _has_ to see this."

"Who's Nish?"

"Oh, you know, just sending mom a head's up. She likes to keep up with my hobbies." He rolls his eyes, walking around front. "My _girlfriend,_ stupid."

"Your girlfriend doesn't mind that you're sleeping with other people?"

"Pshhhh. _Nisha?_ " Jack snorts, heading to the bedside to mess with something that looks suspiciously like a handheld camera. He snaps the first picture while you're just sitting there, open and helpless. "God, you're cute. As long as she doesn't come back with something that doesn't wash off, she can do whoever she wants. Same for me. C'mere, let's get a good pose going here."

 _A good pose_ means dragging you by the throat over to the full-length mirror, carefully posing you in a sitting position, tail draped over your thigh, letting you play bashful while you look away. Then he poses you again - this one is some ridiculous Conan the Barbarian style bullshit, his foot on your head even as he pulls the leash taut. You're pretty sure he sticks his tongue out for it.

"Oh man, she's gonna _love_ that sad little face of yours. Up - yeah, on your knees. Do a dog paw thing with your hands."

" _Jack--_ "

One of these days, you might learn. In the meantime, he gives a vicious pull at your leash that chokes you, and after a moment of thought, just straight up kicks you in the ribs instead.

" _Jack - Jack - Jack_ \- Christ, do you ever stop _whining?_ It's not hard, princess. Stick your hands out in front of you."

He yanks you back to your knees, and this time you do as you're told, eyes cast off towards the far wall.

"No, no - look at the camera, babe. It loves you." You glance up. You can see him in the reflection, taking the opportunity to lift his shirt and take a couple faceless douchebro pictures. Fucking - of course he would. (Nice abs, though. Strangling must be a great workout.) He drops the leash and strolls off, leaving you to cough and scrub at your face.

"There we go. She gets lonely down there sometimes, you know? I mean, when you gotta kill two-thirds of the people you meet..." He shrugs. "Pandora. Whatcha gonna do?"

"Thought you didn't like anything that came from Pandora."

"You're putting words in my mouth, kiddo. Pandora's a decent enough place. You know, not counting the bandits, the criminal scum, the crappy weather, the crappier local fauna, and jeez, the _crappiest_ wildlife imaginable. Like, wow." Jack sits on the edge of the bed, still messing with whatever he has in hand. "That place _sucks,_ but it can't help sucking. It's just naturally suck central. Expecting anything else is like kicking a dog for not knowing algebra."

You look down at your hands, thumbing the controls. Feeling bold.

"I'd like to go back downstairs." You glance up. He doesn't spare you a look. "If that's alright."

"What? Yeah, sure." You go to stand. He waits for you to get halfway to your feet before yanking the leash again, sending you into a heap at his feet. _What the fuck_ is halfway out of your mouth by the time you lift your head, snarling, and the back of his hand is across your face just as fast. Jesus, did he--

" _Now_ look what you've done," Jack spits, examining the gouge in his knuckles. That's from your teeth. Somehow, you're actually surprised to see that he can bleed. "You see this crap? First you show your teeth at me, then you screw up my shooting hand. Way to dick it up, kid."

"Did you just _hit_ me?" Now you're moving back, yanking the leash from his hand. "No, no - you can't."

You're not sure what reaction you're expecting. Murder, mostly. Not bright, mean laughter as he turns the full breadth of his attention on you, and it's like looking at the sun - you cringe away from it, crawling away until your back hits the wall.

"I can't, huh?" He tosses the little phone thing aside, standing, and god, there's something terrifying in the razor edge of his stance. "Don't think I heard you right, princess. I can't _what?_ "

You're silent. Dammit, Foster.

"Can't - what?" It's so hard to tell whether he's murderously amused or just regularly amused, which, by Handsome Jack's nature, is still slightly murderous as is. "Can't touch you the way I want? Can't _do_ what I want? I'm just trying to parse this, baby - are you telling me what I can and can't do?"

"No. No." Damage control. He steps closer and you raise your hands, palms out, trying to make yourself look small. "I just - you hit me."

"Uh. Yeah?" He snorts, taking another step in. "You act like a bitch, you get slapped like a bitch. Easy math here, kiddo. See, I think we're having a communication issue here. That _you_ have some pretty darn unrealistic expectations a-swirlin' around in that soft little head of yours."

He fans his hands. There's a gun on the wall digging into your shoulder with how hard you're pressing back.

"Like you having any say in what happens here. See this, kitten?" He gestures widely. "This is _my turf._ All of it. The penthouse, Helios, _Pandora_ \- it's all mine. Everything in it and on it?"

"It's yours."

"Gold star. Look, babe - you're basically like furniture to me. A vase or some crap. You're _my_ vase. I'm not gonna go smashing it up just for kicks, you know?" He's nearly within arm's reach. You duck your head, thumb pressing down. "Now, if I get a _reason,_ sure, I'll take a goddamn bat to it, but that's not my first thought. What do you do with a vase, Foster?"

"You put plants in it?" You offer it wryly, and to your mild pleasure, he laughs genuinely. Even as he sets an open palm on the wall beside your head, knuckles brushing along your jaw, you get some thread of pride from his reaction. "Go ahead, please."

"You _admire_ it. I mean, that crap exists to look pretty, right? It doesn't actually _do_ anything. Yeah - you're a lot like a vase." He thumbs meanly over your jaw, twitching your head to the side. "You're here to look pretty. Not to talk to, not for _company,_ not to make decisions. You sure as hell aren't here to tell me what to do."

"Of course not."

"Quit kissing ass. What I'm saying is - you need to trust me, buttercup." The free hand is around your throat, and you drag in a reflexive breath. You started to hold it at some point, apparently. "Told you before that I'd take care of you. Sure, you may not always know _why_ I'm doing it the way I do, but trust me. It's always in your best interest. Like what I'm about to do right now."

You shouldn't be surprised when he bounces your skull off the wall _hard,_ but you are - shit, what, you were maybe in a fight when you were fourteen? Then another drunken brawl when you were nineteen? Then those two times you _almost died?_ You don't know how to fight, not that you'd dare fight Jack in the first place, and you don't know how to take a hit either. This is different from a blind beatdown, somehow worse. Now he's just picking at you, nibbling at the edges like a hyena starting at fingers and toes, chewing his way inside. _Yeah,_ you think, looking up at him, _you're a lot like a hyena._

He already has his fist brought back when the collar hits, just like you hoped it would. The doe-eyed haze probably tips him off, or the blown pupils, but this was a strategic move - he's not going to focus on being violent with you when he knows what's coming. After a moment of harsh consideration, he lets his arm drop, dragging you up into a sitting position by your hair. The delicate noise you make has him swearing, taking a moment to stare at the ceiling before he looks back down.

"You think you're real clever, huh? Kiddo? Real smart." You smile dumbly, batting your eyes. He throws you back against the wall, but he's staying close, crowding you in. "Gotta admit, you sure can think on your feet. Makes me wonder how far that's gonna get you."

"We should take more pictures," you purr, and you can see the interest sparking behind his eyes. Sure, you're selling dignity, but considering the alternative - well, you're willing to make that transaction. It's really hard to put complex thoughts together when this shit hits. Whatever keeps him away from his sphere of violence, which is... considerable. "For Nisha."

"Puh- _lease._ You're just trying to squirm outta trouble."

"But it's working," you add, and he smiles.

"It's working. C'mere."

___

It's hard, dirty fucking, and he keeps the camera on hand the entire time. You feel dead by the time he's satisfied, but it's not an unpleasant sensation - it's like coming in or out of a deep sleep, almost, where everything is hazy and nothing really seems to bother you. All that matters is that Jack finally relented and let you press up against his side, your legs tangled, his arm thrown loosely around you to keep you there. There's no telling where the tail went. You're pretty sure the ears are broken. The leash is still knotted around your throat, ready to be twisted and choke you off at a moment's notice.

You were cold, shivering hard as the drugs wore down and left you sweating like a hard-ridden thoroughbred, so maybe he felt bad. Maybe your semi-conscious self under his arm just made for a good photo. Either way, you're dozing with your ear over his heart when he tosses the camera aside and stretches, only belatedly remembering that you're under his arm. He says something that you don't quite catch, checks your pulse, and then says it again - you get a hard shake, and then he speaks very slowly and clearly.

"You alive, princess?"

"Yeah." You sound slurred, trying to go back to that daze. "Mm-hm."

"Got good news for you." When you look up, he flashes that billion dollar smile. "You ready for it?"

"Yes?"

"Good."

You know something is wrong, but when he leans down and actively cuddles you closer to him, it's sealed. He presses his mouth to your neck, teeth grazing your pulse.

"Get your big girl panties on, kiddo. Nisha's coming."


End file.
